


where dwells the breath of all persisting stars

by grayscaleTestimony, ranichi17, temporalSilence



Series: among a million stars, a single love is born [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Human, Archangels as Siblings (Good Omens), Bad Puns, Breaking Up & Making Up, Crowley Has Issues (Good Omens), Crowley as a fallen Raphael, Disabled Crowley (Good Omens), Earn Your Happy Ending, Family Drama, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Footnotes, Friends to Lovers, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Acts of Sacrilege, Mugging, Non-Linear Narrative, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, References to Shakespeare, Stabbing, Temporary Character Death, Trans Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-01 04:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 109,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21370711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayscaleTestimony/pseuds/grayscaleTestimony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ranichi17/pseuds/ranichi17, https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalSilence/pseuds/temporalSilence
Summary: They still meet, whatever the universe.Or, a florist, a bookseller, and a chance meeting in the rain.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: among a million stars, a single love is born [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540630
Comments: 390
Kudos: 296





	1. Plumeria

**Author's Note:**

> So. This fic is a monster (18K words as of posting), and the reason why we’ve disappeared from AO3 for like, three months. Enjoy!

_“I died, and was born in the spring;_  
_I found you, and loved you, again”_  
_— Hummingbirds, Mary Oliver_

Today’s weather forecast suggested that it was going to be a clear night, with only a ten per cent chance of rain. But as everyone knows, weather forecasts are the work of the Devil and as such, should only be taken with a grain of salt.

Well, everyone _except_ one Anthony J. Crowley, who is currently standing in the drizzling rain without an umbrella, muttering to his Bentley that’s stalled at the side of the road.

“Is this because I had to leave you for a while?” Crowley says as he struggles to lift the car’s hood. “Is that it? Come on, Bentley, I already apologised for that.”

The Bentley’s engine is faintly smoking as Crowley looks around in it, making him cough as the smoke billows on his face. At least he still knows how to maintain his own car, unlike _some_ people.

The drizzle abruptly turns into a torrential downpour.

Crowley swears as the downpour catches him off–guard, slamming the Bentley’s hood closed to keep the rain from potentially damaging the engine further.

There are only two ways he can go from here: to either call a towing service for the second time that week or to wait out the weather in the relative dryness of the Bentley’s interior until he can fix the car himself [1].

But as it is, Crowley only had enough money to pay for food this week, and added to that is the fact that it is also just Tuesday and his pay won’t come until Friday. So really, the only choice is the latter of the two.

Crowley sighs a long–suffering sigh before giving in to the inevitable and walking back to the Bentley’s side, attempting to pry the door open.

And of course, as his luck would have it, it turns out that he’d locked himself out of the car, the keys mocking him from the car’s driver’s seat.

“What did I ever do to you, Bentley?” Crowley groans, leaning his forehead onto the roof of his car.

So it’s the dead of the night, the forecast lied to him, and he’d locked himself out of his car that just won’t start. It’s _fine_, it’s probably not gonna get worse than this. Right?

Crowley groans again.

And then he realises that the rain has stopped pelting on his back.

He looks up, turning around to face the sidewalk.

“You shouldn’t be out here in the rain.”

Standing in front of him is a stocky man looking not much older than him but wearing something much more suited to a fifty year old tenured English Literature professor [2], a good–natured smile on his face, holding out, of all things, a tartan–patterned umbrella that only barely manages to shield both of them from the rain.

“Euh,” says Crowley.

“Well, come on,” the stranger says, still smiling. “There’s a café nearby here. No sense getting soaked in this weather.”

Most people’s gut instincts would probably ping with suspicion at a random stranger’s seeming kindness, but then again, when has Crowley ever been “most people?”

Crowley takes another look at the man who’s patiently waiting for a reply and decides that, fuck it, he looks harmless enough. One could even say angelic, of the cherubic variety. Crowley sighs, and with a glare to his disobedient car, accepts the invitation, keeping a safe distance between them as they walk together to the café across the street.

The café’s nearly deserted, save for the both of them and the lone nervous wreck of a server watching them from behind the counter. Unsurprising, considering the late hour and the inclement weather, but still, it’s unnerving to Crowley who’s used to being crowded all his life.

“So, erm,” the stranger says, taking a long sip of hot cocoa from his mug before continuing [3]. “What were you doing out in the rain like that?”

“My car broke down,” Crowley sighs, who’d opted for a nice bit of tisane instead [4]. “What about you then? What were _you_ doing out?” he asks, as he unsuccessfully tries to wipe the lenses of his shades against his equally–wet shirt.

“Oh,” the stranger exclaims, his cheeks turning pink. “I was just walking home from work, actually. I should… probably go. Well, it was nice to meet you then…”

“Crowley,” he replies, extending a hand. “Anthony J. Crowley.”

The stranger takes Crowley’s hand and shakes it as he says, “Ezra Fell.”

* * *

1 Three, in fact, but the third option doesn’t have enough merit to be worth mentioning here. [return to text]

2 And hadn’t Crowley had his own fair share of those? [return to text]

3 Crowley had paid for it, because he might be near broke, but he’s not an animal, thank you very much. [return to text]

4 Four demerara sugar cubes, but judging him on his debilitating sugar addiction is neither here nor there, really. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic updates either weekly or biweekly depending on when we remember to (plus we’re a mess who keep on jumping to whichever plot point catches our fancy for the week so we never write this chronologically, so there’s also that). There’s definitely going to be an update next week though.
> 
> This only came into being when Cait suggested a human au in our server and then spiralled out of control from there. Speaking of which, if you’re from the server and you spoil any of the plot points we’ve laid out, we can and we will hunt you down for sport.


	2. Jasmine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can’t look at this anymore, please take it.

The storm’s finally dissipated and Crowley’s just about to leave the café, when he notices the phone lying left behind on the chair previously occupied by Ezra Fell.

Instinct tells him he probably should just leave the phone in the café’s lost and found bin, but there is none to be found and the server is already giving him the stink eye for being the only customer left in the store, so without really thinking about it, Crowley slips the phone into his pocket. He’d just have to figure out how to return it before he goes to his shift tomorrow.

He does find it odd, though, that the Bentley had her engine working again when he returns to it, as if she’d been fine all along.

As it turns out, Crowley didn’t have to take long in figuring that part out, as the phone starts ringing the moment he pulls over in front of his Mayfair flat.

Crowley picks up, and is immediately greeted by that same chipper voice he’d heard earlier, although now it’s tinged with panic.

“Er, hello. Is there anyone there?”

“Mr Ezra Fell, I presume?” Crowley drawls, like a tutting old–timey Victorian grandmother. “Anthony J. Crowley, once again at your service. You left your phone at the café.”

“Oh— Oh, _thank you!”_ Fell exclaims at the other end of the line. “I was worried I’d gotten mugged.”

“I can assure you you haven’t,” Crowley replies. “Now how do you propose I should return it to you?”

Fell seemed to mull Crowley’s question over, as the other end of the line went quiet, but after a few moments, he replies “What about the same café again tomorrow?”

“Sure, I can do that,” Crowley says. “Do you have a time in mind? Could probably do lunch hours, I think.”

“I— Yes,” Fell replies with hesitation. “Yes, I think that would work nicely.”

“So it’s set, then? The café, at twelve o’clock?”

“Yes, yes. Oh, I can’t thank you enough, Mr Crowley,” Fell says.

“Just Crowley,” Crowley replies automatically. “And you’re welcome.”

Eden, despite what the poets might say, is not in the distant East nor even in East London, regardless of how many rivers surround it. Rather, in Crowley’s opinion, it is to be found in _Central_ London, in St James’s to be exact; a quaint little flower shop tucked within the hustle and bustle of the metropolis, its display racks filled with the most verdant and luxurious flora in the entire city, the sweet scent of them filling up one’s nostrils the moment one walked through the teak doors.

Plus, the owner may or may not be as eccentric as the one who created the original Eden, using the shop as a front for her more… _occult_ activities.

“Mornin’, Agnes,” Crowley says as he enters the shop, ducking his head so as not to hit the edge of the doorframe. Again.

“You are late, Crowley,” Agnes points out, raising her eyebrow to express her disappointment, but the slight smile on her lips tells Crowley a different story.

“Traffic jam, you know how it is,” Crowley replies smoothly, tying on his work apron.

“And how was last night?” Agnes asks, spraying the begonias with a plant mister. “Caught in the rain, are we?”

Crowley shrugs, taking his place at the counter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I keep telling you to get that jalopy of yours checked, but did you listen? No,” Agnes says, squinting at a wilting leaf on a nearby rose that she plucks off with swift efficiency. Satisfied with the pruning, she hums before adding “At least you’ve had an otherwise pleasant evening. Take the shop, Anathema will be here shortly,” as she makes a move towards the exit.

“Wait, where are you going?” Crowley asks, already wincing at the idea being left alone to man the shop during wedding season.

“Getting myself burned at the stake,” she cackles in reply right as she leaves, the wind chimes hanging by the door making a tinkling noise as it closes behind her.

“Alright then,” mutters Crowley, watching as Agnes zooms away on her scooter.

Ten minutes and two annoyingly specific customers later (Christmas roses? In _June?_), Anathema finally arrives at the flower shop, her hair sticking out in all directions as if she’d tried flying her way here.

“Hey, AJ,” Anathema says, tugging a stray strand of hair down. “Where’s Agnes?”

“Went to get herself burned at the stake,” Crowley replies as he tosses Anathema her apron that he’d pulled out from beneath the counter. “Whatever that means. Where have _you_ been, AJ?”

Anathema catches the apron with one hand as the other gathers her hair up into a ponytail. “Had to get poor Phaeton up to the shop and get him fixed,” she says, laughing along when Crowley snorts at her excuse. “And Agnes didn’t give me a ride this morning so I had to take the bus.”

“You poor thing,” Crowley intones in mock sympathy as Anathema rolls her eyes. “We already got some orders waiting for me at the back, so if you can take over at the counter?”

“Way too early for those,” mutters Anathema, walking her way to the register as she hastily ties up her apron.

“Can’t help it,” Crowley shrugs. “’Tis the seaso— _Ow!”_ he hisses when Anathema elbows him in the ribs to make him move.

Anathema grins up at him, all cat–like. “Do the bouquets, AJ. I’ll take care of this.”

The plants that can be found in Eden are the most luxurious specimens that can be found anywhere in London, and thus are highly sought–after for something that looks like a hole–in–the–wall at first glance. Some superstitious patrons might attribute the evergreen appearance of the flower shop to Agnes’ occult night–time activities, but in truth, the lush flora is in part thanks to Anthony J. Crowley’s own brand of plant encouragement, which consists solely of yelling bloody murder at them until he’s satisfied that they got the warning: _Thrive or die_.

After all, he’d already given them everything they could possibly want, enough moisture and fertilizer, soil with the correct pH level, a tonic here and there, and of course, their own place in the sun. So if they still die after that, well, that’s on them.

Right now Crowley is scolding a row of Japanese irises at the corner of Eden’s backroom for not blooming on schedule.

“What did I tell you?” Crowley hisses as he lowers his shades to glare at an unopened bud. “I needed those flowers _yesterday._”

This much is true. He’d explicitly warned them to bloom by now, as one of the orders he needs to complete before the day is out is for a control freak of a bride who needs every flower in her bouquet be a precise shade of purple for her theme wedding.

“What have you got to say for yourselves?” says Crowley, letting his voice ring throughout the backroom.

The stems on the plants shoot up a little straighter, the dry leaves falling off as the branches shake even without a breeze.

Crowley curls his lips up into a sneer. “That’s what I thought. You’re lucky I had an order placed with the flower farm for spare flowers, but this is your _last_ warning. I will _not_ tolerate this mistake again. And _you_,” he says, swerving on his heel wielding his sharpest garden shears as he approaches the marigolds swaying near the window. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about how you’ve let those aphids all over you.”

“Right, you _know_ how I feel about pests,” he continues as he viciously hacks off the marigold’s damaged leaves, unceremoniously dumping them onto the recycling bin. “You’ve brought this on yourself,” he says, spraying the now–bare marigolds with soapy water.

Crowley turns on the garbage disposal, relishing in dropping in the pruning piece by piece, so, _so_ slowly, as he sweeps a glare across the rows of plants gathered in the backroom. “Let this be a lesson to the rest of you: _grow better._”

There’s a knock on the door just then. _“Not so loud,”_ Anathema yells without opening the door. “You’re scaring away the customers.”

“Sorry,” Crowley yells back as he turns off the motor and pulls a chair towards him so he could get started on the bouquets.

Crowley is wrapping up on an arrangement meant for some kid in the hospital, when hears the clock chime noon. He ties a final ribbon to the bunch of off–balance filler flowers before he stretches out his arms over his head and pushes himself off the chair, sauntering out of the room with a hum.

“I’m going out for lunch,” Crowley says to a bored–looking Anathema sitting slouched behind the counter. “Want me to grab something for you?”

Anathema peers at him from beneath her glasses as she sits up straighter. “No thanks, I packed my own lunch today,” she replies, patting her bag for good measure, before she suddenly squints and adds “You don’t usually go out for lunch.”

“I’m…” Crowley clears his throat. “I’m meeting up with someone.”

Anathema places a hand under her chin, not breaking eye contact. “Did something happen last night, AJ?”

“No? Why would you think that?” says Crowley, making a face. “I’m just going to return some guy’s phone that I found last night, that’s all.”

Anathema smiles wryly, still squinting at him with suspicion, as she says “Have fun.”

Crowley is sitting on the hood of the Bentley, idly checking his watch. Fell still isn’t anywhere in sight. Is he late? Or is Crowley the one who’s late and Fell already left, thinking he wouldn’t show?

He checks Fell’s phone in his pocket again. No new messages.

Crowley decides to give it another ten minutes, and then he’d leave. Shame, that Fell did seem like such a nice fellow.

Minute five, and Crowley’s tapping his fingers on the roof of his car, when he catches sight of the tartan–patterned umbrella coming in his direction from amongst the crowd, and Crowley immediately sits up straighter, playing it cool [1].

He’s still pretending not to notice Ezra Fell’s arrival when Fell’s worn–out oxfords come into view. Fell clears his throat, and only then does Crowley finally look up.

“Er, hello again,” Fell says, dragging his shoes across the pavement, wearing the same slight smile as he did last night.

“Hello,” Crowley replies, who’s now standing up and leaning on the car. “Don’t mean to be _that_ person, but it sure took you a while to get here.”

Ezra Fell makes a face, saying “My apologies. My boss refused to let anyone leave until we finished a particular report.”

“Rough,” Crowley sympathises, as he fishes around in his pockets for Fell’s phone and holds it out for him.

“Thank you,” breathes Fell, reaching for his phone and holding it close. “Really, thank you.”

“How did you not notice your phone wasn’t in your pocket?” Crowley asks.

Fell fiddles with the buttons on his phone, probably checking to see if Crowley had messed with it during the night, which might have insulted Crowley if he was a little more sensitive.

“Not really good with electronics,” Fell finally replies, locking his phone and tucking it away in his pocket. “So I forget I own one.”

Crowley hums, mulling this explanation over, and then nods. Understandable, really.

“Anyway, let’s have lunch,” Ezra Fell says, beaming. “My treat.”

“But I—”

Fell shakes his head. “I _insist_. Besides, I owe you.”

Crowley only had to think about the dire state of his finances, before he begrudgingly says yes.

It’s half–past two when Crowley gets back to Eden. Luckily for him, Agnes is in a good mood weaving together what seems to be a wreath, or else he would have gotten an earful from her already [2].

“Back so soon?” Agnes says, looking up from whittling a rose’s thorn off with a knife in the corner. “Thought you were going to call the rest of the day off.”

“Come on, Agnes. I wasn’t gone _that_ long, was I?” Crowley replies with a smile that he didn’t know how it got there. “Where’s Anathema?”

Agnes hums. “At the backroom, covering for your shift.”

“Oops,” says Crowley with a wince as he remains standing by the doorway.

“Flip that sign for me, will you? We’re closing early today.”

“May I ask why?” Crowley says, raising an eyebrow while doing as he was told.

“Taking my two AJs out for dinner, what does it look like?” Agnes retorts, stabbing the knife down onto the countertop. “It’s going to be a busy week, so you’ve earned it.”

“How generous of you,” drawls out Crowley who knows there is always a catch when it comes to Agnes.

“Festival in Inverness this weekend,” Agnes says, inspecting the wreath of roses for any more remaining thorns. “Anathema’s coming with me, you’re gonna have the shop for yourself.”

_Ah, there it is._

“Midsummer?” Crowley asks.

Agnes smiles wryly as she says “What else? Come on, don’t give me that face, the weekend wouldn’t be busy. You’ll be fine.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “How are you so sure?”

“When am I _not_ sure about anything?” Agnes shoots back. “You’d want to look your best for the next few days, by the way.”

“Why?”

“Just trust me.”

* * *

1 Or well, as straighter as his scoliosis would permit him to. [return to text]

2 Which is weird, because Crowley’s been working here for four years, and yet he’s never once known they sell wreaths. But then again, that’s Agnes Nutter for you. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who are we to deny the two AJs joke handed to us on a silver platter when it was revealed Anathema’s full name is Anathema Jane Nutter Device?


	3. Burdock

Ezra is fishing around in his pockets for the key to his tiny flat in Soho when he blanches quite suddenly, as he realizes that there’s something missing from them.

He pats himself down again, but the action only confirms what he already feared.

His phone is missing.

Okay, there’s really no need to panic. Maybe he’d just dropped it… somewhere. Yeah. Or maybe someone had picked it off his pocket while he was walking home. Not completely impossible, as Ezra _could_ get distracted a lot easily by a lot of things.

He should probably just try to call his phone first, just to see if it will still get connected. If he’s lucky, it would just have been left behind in that café. If not… Well. He’d just have to weather Gabriel wrath now, wouldn’t he?

Ezra walks up to his next–door neighbour’s door and knocks on it. She would have a phone at least.

“Madame Tracy Draws Aside the Veil every afternoon except Thursdays. Parties welcome. When would you be wanting to Explore the Mys— Oh, hello, Ezra dear.”

“Er, hello. Madame Tracy,” says Ezra, standing awkwardly by the doorframe.

“Why, whatever are you doing out here this late?” asks Madame Tracy, eyeing him up and down and tutting at his somewhat soaked coat.

“I was wondering,” he starts, rubbing the toe of his left shoe on Madame Tracy’s welcome mat. “Could I borrow your phone? Just for a moment, I mean?”

“Sure, dear,” Madame Tracy says, rummaging through the folds of her voluminous nightgown until she unearths a phone that looks like it should have been retired at least a decade ago. “But whatever happened to your own phone?”

“That’s the problem, actually,” Ezra replies, smiling sheepishly as he takes the phone and dials his own number with muscle memory. “I _might_ have misplaced it this evening.”

The call thankfully still connects, and Ezra breathes a sigh of relief when someone picks up on the other end.

“Er, hello, is anyone there?” Ezra says, immediately thinking that maybe he should have cleared his throat first.

“Mr Ezra Fell, I presume?”

That would be the man Ezra had met in the rain this evening. Ezra breathes a sigh of relief, as Mr Crowley proceeds to tell him of how he’d left his phone on his seat at the café.

Madam Tracy, eavesdropping next to him, elbows him on the arm with a meaningful look.

“Oh—” Ezra exclaims as he deciphers what the look meant. “Oh,_ thank you! _I was worried I’d gotten mugged.”

Mr Crowley sounds to be smiling as he asks “Now how do you propose I should return it to you?”

Ezra’s brow furrows. Where can he even make changes to his routine? It’s already tight as it is, and an interruption will only make it worse.

Then again, stopping by at the café earlier _was_ already an interruption, wasn’t it? What was another at this point?

“What about…” Ezra winces. “What about the same café again tomorrow?”

“Sure, I can do that,” Mr Crowley says. “Do you have a time in mind? Could probably do lunch hours, I think.”

“I—”

Ezra hesitates. Lunchtime was probably alright. Except the ducks wouldn’t be fed tomorrow. Oh, well.

“Yes, I think that would work nicely,” he finally says.

“So it’s set, then? The café, at twelve o’clock?” Mr Crowley asks again.

“Yes, yes,” Ezra replies, not really paying attention anymore as Madame Tracy beams and gives him a thumbs up. “Oh, I can’t thank you enough, Mr Crowley.”

“Just Crowley. And you’re welcome.”

The skyscraper of the Christchurch conglomerate headquarters stands tall and proud at the heart of London’s business district. The company was established in the late 19th century by a scion of an East India Trading Company officer and has since grown into a multi–million business, weathering its way through several financial crises to eventually span across the globe.

Ezra looks up at the building that blocks out his view of the midsummer sky, and sighs. Once more unto the breach.

Technically speaking, Ezra is an office worker, but he’d rather think of himself as a bookseller, which is still somewhat accurate, actually, as he works in the marketing department of the company’s publishing offshoot.

It’s as close as he could get to having his own dainty little corner bookshop, he rationalises.

Gabriel’s in a snit today, not that he’s always in a snit, but today he’s more irritable than usual, reprimanding Ezra the moment he steps out of the elevator, even though he’s actually only thirty seconds late [1].

Ezra just lets the words pass through his ears, affecting an apologetic look as Gabriel continues to snipe at him. He’s used to it anyway.

Besides, he thinks uncharitably as he takes his seat on his corner of the office space, Gabriel wouldn’t even be his boss right now if he were not the owner’s son, so why does Ezra have to listen to him?

Ezra is about to leave the office for his lunch, when Gabriel blocks his way out of the cubicle, smiling sardonically as he places a sizeable stack of papers on Ezra’s desk.

“Get these done for me, will you?” Gabriel says, still wearing that annoying smile on his face. “I need them done before lunch.”

“But—” Ezra says, stopping abruptly as he realises he’s raising his voice. “It’s already lunch, sir.”

“It’s only lunch when I say so, Ezra,” says Gabriel, patronisingly. “Now get back to work.”

“Yes, sir,” Ezra replies miserably, dragging his chair across the floor.

The wince on Gabriel’s face with the noise makes it almost worth it.

They keep meeting.

At first, Ezra had chalked it up to just a weird coincidence, but if it’s happening every other day? Definitely not. St James’s just seems too big for them to keep bumping into each other.

The third time they see each other near the lake, Ezra finally gathers the courage to ask.

“Hello,” Ezra says as he stands beside Crowley, who startles at the sound of his voice in the middle of tossing bread at the ducks.

“Ngk,” says Crowley, his face turning as red as his hair. “Hello, Mr Fell.”

“Would you like to have some coffee?” Ezra smiles good–naturedly. “There’s a café just steps from here. And I already told you, it’s just Ezra.”

Crowley looks at the remainder of the loaf in his hand, and chucks it at an unsuspecting drake that honks indignantly at him, before he replies. “Alright. Ezra it is. Now where’s that café you were talking about?”

Ezra settles down with his espresso on a chair next to the window, while Crowley seems to have gotten himself a sugary monstrosity that’s more cream than coffee, which Ezra decides not to comment on.

Ezra takes a sip of his drink, savouring the taste, before he speaks. “So… what keeps bringing you to St James’s?”

“I— There’s a flower shop near the park,” Crowley replies, the straw he’d been using to stir his coffee held in mid–air. “My friend’s grandmother— great–grandmother? It’s unclear. Anyway, she owns it, and I work for her.”

“Huh. So you’re a florist? Never would have guessed,” Ezra says, raising an eyebrow.

“Wait, so what did you think I do?” Crowley sputters, making a face as he sips his drink through the straw.

Ezra shrugs. “I don’t know? When you first introduced yourself I thought, ‘That can’t possibly be his real name.’ So… maybe the Mafia?”

Crowley abruptly chokes on his drink, coughing until he catches his breath.

“What?” Ezra asks, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Crowley clears his throat as he starts to laugh. “Nothing, just lots of people say that. You know what, maybe we _should_ make this a habit, since we keep on bumping into each other anyways.”

Ezra looks up, suddenly unsure. Does he really _want_ to? Sure, Crowley seems like such a nice man, but Ezra’s always liked keeping to himself, so he doesn’t really know how friends work.

“Well? Same time again next week?” Crowley says, raising an eyebrow.

Oh, what the hell. There’s always a first time for everything.

“Sure,” replies Ezra, smiling and raising his mug. “Same time next week.”

* * *

1 Which is already a miracle in itself, really, because Ezra doesn’t know how he ever managed to get out of bed on time without his phone’s alarm to wake him up. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember in the first chapter where we said this fic was already at 18k? Well, this wasn't one of those chapters written then, so this had to be crammed over two weeks during exam season. Oops.


	4. Lilac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last update of the decade, let’s go guys

“Ask him out.”

_“What?”_ Crowley asks, staring back at Anathema like she’s suddenly grown a second head.

“I _said_, ask him out,” Anathema sighs, as she clears the pile of spare ribbons off her side of the backroom’s table. “You’ve been mooning over him for almost a month now, just ask him out on a date already.”

“Am _not_,” Crowley replies, absolutely shocked and betrayed at Anathema’s accusation. “We only go out for coffee at lunch sometimes, ‘s all. And what, has that delivery guy asked _you_ out on a date yet?”

“That’s irrelevant, _maldito_,” Anathema says, staring up at Crowley as she leans on the table with a hand on her chin. “What’s up with that, anyway? Since when can you tolerate coffee?”

“Eh. It’s fine when it’s loaded with sugar,” Crowley shrugs, snipping a yellowing leaf off an iris stalk.

Anathema stares on dubiously.

“You and your sweet tooth,” she finally says after some time, still looking at Crowley suspiciously. “Didn’t you have a stash of sweets hidden inside a pillowcase?”

“Oh, shut up,” replies Crowley, not without affection, as he tosses a nearby flower foam at her direction.

Ezra’s already at their usual corner by the window, staring out while savouring a bite of croque monsieur, when Crowley saunters into the café, a hand at his hip [1].

“Think this makes us even now,” Crowley says, pulling up the chair in front of Ezra to sit in, his bones thanking him for it.

Ezra’s gaze turns to him, and he smiles as he puts down the fork. “It does.”

“Not surprised I’m already here?” Crowley says with a raise of his eyebrows as he waves away the server who’s approaching.

“I heard the car,” says Ezra, matter–of–factly. “You’re not going to eat?”

Crowley shrugs. “Not feeling it. What are you up to today?”

“Nothing much, really,” Ezra says, as he nudges away at a book that’s peeking out from beneath his arm. “I got reprimanded again for using an outdated format for my report.”

Crowley squints at the battered and faded dust jacket of the book, not really knowing what else to say. “Just in time for the season, huh,” he replies instead.

“What? _Oh,”_ says Ezra, hiding the _Sonnets_ further behind his elbow. “It’s nothing. I just found where it was hiding yesterday so I thought, why not reread it?”

_“Why_ are you hiding it?” asks Crowley, frowning at the action. “Come on, it’s not like I didn’t read Shakespeare too.” 

_“You did?”_ Ezra says, staring incredulously at Crowley.

“I’m hurt, Ezra. Deeply, _deeply_ hurt,” Crowley replies, dramatically clutching a hand to his chest. “What about me makes you think I’m such an uncultured swine?”

“I guess…” Ezra says, before he shakes his head. “Never mind. You read Shakespeare, really?”

Crowley puffs up his chest and grins. “Yeah! Wanted to join the drama club until…” He trails off, shaking his head before clearing his throat. “Wait, why are you staring?”

“No reason,” says Ezra, smiling bemusedly at Crowley, placing a hand beneath his chin.

“I— Uh, listen,” Crowley says, internally wincing as he scratches at the back of his head. “Do you want to go out with me?”

“Aren’t we already going out?” asks Ezra, eyebrows furrowing as he continues to look at Crowley.

“Ngk. I meant like…” _Ugh, Ana never said this was easy._ _“Out_ out?”

“Are you asking me out…” Ezra worries at his bottom lip, which is actually kind of cute now that Crowley thinks about it [2]. “On a _date?”_

Crowley smiles sheepishly. “Um. Maybe? It doesn’t have to be one,” he says. Then pauses. “Do you want it to be?”

“I’m— I’d like that, yes,” says Ezra, who somehow manages to smile even more sheepishly than Crowley does.

Crowley mumbles something unintelligibly, as he pushes his shades back upon his face with a finger. “Great! I— So, uh, when do you want to go out?”

“Maybe on Friday?” suggests Ezra, who’s now picking off the rest of the croque monsieur with the fork. “It’s just that I still have to redo the sales report before then or Gabriel will be ever so cross with me again.”

Crowley pretends not to hear the last part as he says “Friday evening, then. I’ll pick you up at work?”

Best not let Anathema know what just happened, really [3].

_“—Choo!”_

The stalks of dahlia Crowley was misting propel themselves towards the windows as Crowley sneezes again, miserably.

“Aww, you still sneeze like a kitten,” Anathema says, peering at him from behind the counter. “Have you been to the doctor for that yet?”

Crowley grimaces, wiping at his runny nose with the back of his hand. “‘S just a cold, Ana.”

“And I’m just saying,” Anathema replies with a raise of her eyebrow. “That your colds are always the worst, so go to the doctor.”

Crowley looks at the plant mister in his hand, contemplating, before finally, he says _“Nah.”_

“Suit yourself,” says Anathema, smiling wryly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Crowley is leaning against the Bentley, parked near the entrance of Christchurch towers, as he waits for Ezra’s shift to finish. The uncanny feeling of being watched is hanging heavy on his shoulders, and if he turns around, he’s sure he’d be able to see Gabriel glaring bloody murder at him. So he doesn’t.

Then again, Crowley doesn’t really have time to dwell on it, as Ezra is already coming out from the revolving glass doors, wearing the same tweed and tartan ensemble he had on the day they first met. He has an anxious expression on his face, that is, until he sees Crowley waving at him, and his face instantly lights up.

“Bad day?” Crowley asks as he opens the door of the passenger side for Ezra.

“Not anymore,” replies Ezra, who smiles up at him as gets in the car.

“You really shouldn’t have,” Ezra says, shyly smiling as he sits on the chair Crowley is holding out for him.

Crowley scoffs. “Nonsense. We’re doing this properly,” he says through a stuffed nose. _And we should’ve been at the Ritz, really,_ he thinks but doesn’t add.

“Here,” Crowley says, shoving the bouquet of roses at Ezra’s direction, as he sneezes on his sleeve.

Ezra’s cheeks pink ever so slightly further as he takes the roses, the tip of his finger lightly brushing over Crowley’s thumb as he pulls away. “Thank you. I didn’t bring anything for you though,” he mumbles.

“That’s alright,” Crowley says, avoiding Ezra’s eyes. “We just happened to have a few extras lying around in the shop.”

It wasn’t totally a lie. Some poor sod who’d offended his wife or something had ordered a large bouquet as an apology gift, but had to cancel at the last minute without even taking the offered refund because the family had to leave for a while and go on a diplomatic mission to some Middle Eastern country. Hence, the oversupply of roses at Eden.

_“Oh._ Thank you, anyway,” Ezra says, still sniffing the flowers but now looking mildly disappointed at the implication that they were just an afterthought.

_Yeah, probably wasn’t the best idea to mention that, _thinks Crowley. “Should we get something?” he asks instead, gesturing at the menu book.

Ezra hums contemplatively. “I guess so,” he says, picking up the menu and immediately blanching once he flips to the first page.

Not wanting to embarrass Ezra any further _(god, why didn’t he check the prices first before making a reservation?)_, Crowley plucks the menu off Ezra’s hands and closes it, keeping it away from reach.

“Should we just have, uh…” _Think quick, AJ. Don’t mess this up._ “Pork roast? Let’s split the plate?”

“Sure,” says Ezra, and Crowley flags down a server, whispering something in their ear as they take the order.

Ezra looks at Crowley with a curious air, to which Crowley just smiles back.

“You’ll see,” Crowley says.

They dine on pork loin, smoked and roasted on cherry wood chips with the restaurant’s outdoor oven, drizzled with a glaze made from peach preserves reduced with honey; two ramekins of dauphinoise are set on the side of the tray, still steaming with their heavenly scent. All this was paired with a bottle of German Riesling.

“I didn’t know you cooked,” Ezra says between much–appreciated bites. “Is this what you whispered to the server? Because this tastes exquisite.”

“Yeah. And I don’t, actually,” Crowley admits with a shrug, pushing a small piece of the roast around his plate with the fork. “It’s my brother who cooks in the family, I just remembered what he told me.” 

Ezra wipes his mouth on the napkin before he speaks again. “Oh, you have a brother?”

_“Brothers,”_ Crowley says, clearing his throat. “What about you?”

An expression that Crowley can’t read flickers across Ezra’s face. “Only child, sorry.”

“That’s alright. Probably easier that way,” says Crowley, measuring his words. “Say, Ezra…”

Ezra looks up from the glass of wine he’s sipping. “Yes?”

“Do you want—” Crowley is cut off with another violent sneeze, which he thankfully manages to keep away from the food. “Do you want to get some ice cream after this?”

Ezra stares at him dumbfoundedly. “Er. Crowley?”

“What?”

“Your nose is bleeding.”

_“Shit, what?”_ says Crowley, immediately putting a finger under his nostrils. Sure enough, when he takes it off, it’s covered in blood, now intermingling with mucus and snot.

_Bloody cold. Literally._

Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose, swearing under his breath as he grabs at the tissues at the edge of the table to wipe the blood off, when Ezra reaches over to him.

“Here, let me…” Ezra says, and before Crowley could react, he’s already pulled the shades off Crowley’s face, leaving him blinking dazedly at the too–bright lighting of the restaurant.

“I’m sorry,” whispers Ezra, hands and shades still hovering in mid–air.

“That weird, huh?” Crowley says, trying and failing to keep the bitterness away from his voice. “Coloboma. What did my father use to call them again? _Snake eyes._”

“I think…” replies Ezra, who by now has pulled his hands back to his side of the table. “I think they look pretty. It’s a lovely shade of hazel.”

Crowley blinks again, but not from the brightness of the room. “Thank you.”

The blood soaks through the tissues quickly, and Ezra hands Crowley more of them as he asks “Does this happen often? The nosebleeds, I mean.”

_“God._ Thanks, you’re an angel,” Crowley says, accepting the tissues and cringing as he removes the soaked ones. Hopefully, he won’t have to pay for the restaurant’s drycleaning. “Only when I have bad colds. Does this mean it’s a yes on the ice cream?”

“Of course it is,” Ezra says, his eyes twinkling as he smiles.

Turns out there’s _another_ summer storm that the weather forecast had left out this morning, and in typical Crowley fashion, it pours down _hard_, just as they’re leaving the restaurant.

“Don’t suppose we can go for ice cream now,” says Crowley, who turns to Ezra with a nonplussed expression. “I don’t suppose you have an umbrella with you again?”

“No, I didn’t think it was going to rain. Not with how clear the skies were this morning,” admits Ezra, who’s also wincing himself.

An idea starts forming in Crowley’s mind. May work, may not work. Worth a shot, anyway.

“Do you want to stay over at my place for a while?” asks Crowley, bracing himself for a rejection. “It’s not that far from here.”

Ezra abruptly stops wringing his hands together. “Well, you _did_ already take me out to dinner,” he says.

Crowley gapes like a fish out of water, before he remembers he’s driving and snaps out of it.

“There’s uh… There’s a bathroom on the left,” Crowley says, fumbling with his keys and swearing under his breath once his wet, shaking hands eventually drop them. “I’ll get you some clothes, so make yourself at home.”

Ezra, also shivering from briefly running in the rain from the parking lot to the lobby, nods absently as his eyes taking stock of his surroundings, and for once, Crowley feels self–conscious of how sparse his flat is.

“What about you though?” Ezra finally asks. “I don’t want to impose.”

“I’ll be—” Crowley cuts himself off, sneezing onto his sleeve. No blood this time. “I’ll be fine. There’s another just down the hall, near the kitchen.”

“Are you sure?” asks Ezra again. “It’s your flat, and your cold might get worse if—”

“It’s _fine_,” says Crowley, a lot more forcefully than he means to. _Seriously,_ people need to quit worrying about him. “You take the closer shower, I’ll take the other one.”

Crowley steps out of the shower, aggressively drying his hair with a towel, when from across the hall he spots Ezra already dressed in one of Crowley’s own old shirts, looking at the only picture frame in the entire flat as he holds it in his hands.

Shit. Shit. _Shit._ Play it cool. _Play it cool._

“Hey,” says Crowley, walking until he’s shoulder–to–shoulder with Ezra.

Ezra startles, hurriedly placing back the frame on the tabletop. “Sorry,” Ezra says, turning his head to face Crowley. “Just got curious.”

“That’s fine.” Crowley hums, picking up the frame.

A sick little girl and boy grin up at the camera, wearing what was quite possibly the worst witch and angel costume in existence, the logo of a children’s hospital on the bottom right corner of the photo. He’d helped her with the paper hat for that one. Anathema had the photo recopied for him a few years ago after he’d… _lost_ his own copy.

Well. Maybe there wasn’t really any reason to panic, as he feels a smile tug on his face with the memory.

“Ana,” he finally says. “You should meet her. I’ll introduce you some time.”

“You look different,” comments Ezra, perhaps from lack of anything else to say.

“Well, it _was_ Halloween,” shrugs Crowley. “And it’s been what? Twelve years? Turned into a bit of a fallen angel in that interval, too.”

“A fallen angel?” Ezra says, incredulous. “Really, my dear,” he adds, and his eyes widen as he realises what he just called Crowley. “I meant… You’re not _that _bad.”

“Am I?” asks Crowley, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t even know me that much.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to doing exactly that.”

* * *

1 Less a saunter and more deliberately trying not to limp, really. It’s been a day. [return to text]

2 In Crowley’s defense, he’s a little too lightheaded at the moment to think straight. Not that he’s ever had a single straight thought in his life. [return to text]

3 Then again, considering Agnes, who even knows if _she _doesn’t already know what happened? [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff happened, sorry. But we’re back now, and also we’ve somehow reached 25K+ words on this.


	5. Cornflower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We were only mostly dead. Oops.
> 
> Uni is a menace.

Ezra does not know what to make of Crowley, currently sleeping soundly on the sofa against a backdrop of the soft early morning light coming in from the window, his shoulder–length auburn hair all splayed out behind his head.

He’s not so bad, underneath that easygoing exterior. True, Crowley might come off as unintentionally insensitive at times [1], but really, he’s quite sweet once one gets past that.

And maybe Ezra shouldn’t pry, he’s just a guest after all, but it does feel like the rest of Crowley’s flat is just as empty as the guest bedroom he’d insisted Ezra take last night. Barely anything indicated that there is someone residing in this corner of Mayfair. Ezra had yet to find another photograph anywhere in it, apart from the single one in the hallway last night; which, if Ezra isn’t thinking more rationally about it, gives off the impression that Anthony J. Crowley had just popped into existence out of thin air, fully grown without a single human connection.

The kitchen, Ezra thinks as he finally figures out his way into it, is no better. There’s barely enough food in either cupboard or fridge to feed a person. Not even a single bag of coffee beans. Does the man ever even eat? No wonder he’s so thin.

Oh, well. He’d just have to make do for breakfast, he supposes.

Crowley rises from his slumber, making his way with lumbering steps towards the kitchen, just as Ezra is taking the last of the French toasts off the stove.

“Is that breakfast?” Crowley asks from the doorway, voice thick with grogginess combined with a stuffed nose, already wearing his shades.

“I— Yes,” admits Ezra, his back turned to Crowley as he transfers the French toast onto a plate, such that neither could see the face of the other. “As thanks for letting me stay the night. By the way, you’re out of coffee.”

“Er… I don’t— I don’t really drink coffee. Or eat breakfast, for that matter,” Crowley trails off. “French toast?”

_Ah, there’s the answer,_ Ezra thinks, shrugging before he turns around and sets the plate at the centre of the small kitchen table. “In a sense. Couldn’t find the cinnamon so it’s just butter and eggs. I hope you like it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Crowley replies with a playful grin, before settling down on a chair next to the table.

Ezra smiles back and sits on the chair opposite Crowley, taking a piece of toast for himself. As Ezra puts a dollop of whipped cream on the toast, he spots Crowley pouring a more than generous amount of syrup onto his own plate from the corner of his eye, gleeful like a child at a birthday party.

“You don’t have to go to work today, do you?” Crowley asks midway through a mouthful of toast, seemingly oblivious to the thick drop of maple syrup clinging to the side of his chin. “What?” he adds, when he finally notices Ezra staring at him.

Ezra places a finger to the side of his own chin, keeping himself from grinning as Crowley takes the hint and drags his hand across his face, wiping away the syrup and the crumbs as he swears under his breath.

“I don’t, by the way,” replies Ezra, as he cuts off another bite from his toast. “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing, I just—” Crowley cuts himself off, swallowing down the last mouthful of his toast. “Do you want to come to the flower shop with me?”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ve been enough of a bother to you,” Ezra replies, fork hovering in midair as he decides if he should get another piece of toast. “I’ll just go home after breakfast.”

“You’re not a bother, Ezra,” says Crowley, softly. “In fact, I enjoy your company. So. Would you like to come to the flower shop with me?”

Ezra hums, deciding against taking another piece, swiftly grabbed by Crowley. “Maybe. If you’re sure.”

The Bentley comes to a stop in front of a quaint little brick–walled establishment near St James’s, where a bicycle that looks like it would be more at home in a museum is parked in the alleyway at its corner. The name “Eden” is loudly displayed at the storefront, in a looping script serving as a trellis onto which seemingly alive illustrated vines blooming with technicolour flowers crept; and in the display window, one could easily view the arrangements they had on sale, yellow marigolds and purple delphiniums, orchids hanging up on earthenware pots arranged as if they were steps on a spiral ladder.

“So, this is where you work,” says Ezra, shielding his eyes from the sunlight as he steps out of the car.

A slight smile forms on Crowley’s lips. “Doesn’t look much on the outside, doesn’t it? You’ll see.”

“Hey, Ana,” says Crowley, waving casually at a young woman hunched over a tome behind the register, wearing large, round glasses that reflect the fluorescent lighting, giving the lenses the appearance of two full moons.

Ana waves back without looking up from her book, replying “Hey, AJ.”

Crowley clears his throat, and Ana irritably manages a _“What?”_ as she finally looks up and sees Ezra for the first time, no doubt thinking about how awkward he looks as he feels right at this moment, standing by the doorway wearing clothes from yesterday.

“Who’d you bring with you today, AJ?” Ana asks, looking over at Ezra with a friendly smile.

Crowley jumps up like a deer in headlights, the straightens himself out again as he steps away from the door to let Ezra into the shop fully. “Euh. This is—” says Crowley, coughing slightly before continuing. “This is Ezra Fell. Ezra, this is Anathema Device,” he adds, turning to Ezra.

“Oh, the famous Mr Ezra Fell?” Anathema says, her whole face lighting up as she steps away from the register in order to approach them, then extends a hand to shake Ezra’s own. “I was wondering when AJ was going to bring you over.”

Ezra blinks as Anathema lets go of his hand. “The famous?”

Anathema casts a side glance at Crowley’s direction, smirking as she says “Didn’t he tell you? AJ here has never once stopped talking about you.”

“Ana…” Crowley says at the same time, glaring at Anathema from behind his glasses.

“What, it’s true,” counters Anathema as she gives another reassuring smile at Ezra. _“I’m_ not gonna lie to him.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows and frowns, turning away from the both of them. “That’s not what I said.”

“No, but that’s what you implied,” Anathema replies. “Come on, Ezra,” she says, linking arms with an Ezra who startles with the sudden human contact. “Let’s leave the grump alone, I’ll tour you around the shop.”

“Oi!” Crowley swiftly turns back around on his heel to protest. “He came here with me, didn’t he?”

“Well, Mr Fell?” Anathema asks with an impish twinkle in her eyes. “Which of us would you rather go with?”

“I—” Ezra hesitates briefly, looking back and forth between Crowley and Anathema. “I think I’ll go with Crowley for now. Sorry, Miss Device.”

“Just Anathema,” she says, handing Ezra over to Crowley, clasping their hands together. Neither of them pull away. “Welcome to Eden.”

Crowley leads Ezra to the shop’s backroom, which looked and felt even more like a greenhouse than the shop front did. The controlled temperature of the room provided enough humidity and protection against the more extreme fluctuations of the changing seasons, allowing out of season flowers to blossom and thrive. Japanese irises bloomed proudly on their own corner near the window, a splash of purple against the midsummer cosmopolitan scene. On another corner were planted sunflowers, their buds already trying to find the sun, as some of them face each other. A trellis has also been set up, upon which sweet peas were already climbing.

The sight steals Ezra’s breath away, and when it at last returns to him a moment later, he exclaims “They’re beautiful, Crowley.”

Crowley blushes, facing away from Ezra. “Don’t let them hear you say that,” he says, menacingly approaching a row of hydrangeas with a plant mister. “They’ve got big enough egos as it is.”

“What, the flowers?” asks Ezra, thoroughly confused.

“Yes,” Crowley replies, his lips upturned as he spritzes the hydrangeas with some sort of tonic. “‘S how you get them to grow like this, you know? You never spoil them.”

“I don’t… _think_ that’s how gardening works,” Ezra mumbles to himself. “This was all you?”

“Hm? Yeah, more or less,” says Crowley, who’s now trimming the yellowing leaves off the sweet peas with garden shears. “Agnes helped, though. Anathema’s grandmother.”

Ezra walks towards the table in the middle of the room, still admiring the scenery as he flops down onto a chair and flips through a magazine on top of the pile scattered about. Of all the places on a beautiful Saturday morning, the last thing Ezra expected to see was his boss on the centrefold of the magazine in his hands. Ezra flips it back to the front cover, sees the cover line _(“UK’s Youngest CEO Tells All!: Lessons About Loss and Moving Forward”)_, and instinctively makes a face. He remembers the day after Gabriel had had this interview, with Gabriel screaming down the entire office for the most minor of inconveniences, even firing his old PA for something as minor as filing a document in the wrong cabinet. Worse, Sandalphon immediately became the PA’s replacement, giving him the opportunity to lord the promotion over everyone else and act like he owns the workplace at every turn he gets.

Ezra goes to pick up another magazine, but Crowley’s already walking towards him with an odd expression on his face, making Ezra furrow his eyebrows together into a questioning stare.

“Those are Ana’s. I _told_ her not to leave them lying around in the backroom,” Crowley says a little defensively, hastily stacking up the magazines and shoving them into a corner away from Ezra. “Sorry about that.”

“I didn’t say anything,” says Ezra, surprised at the sudden reaction from Crowley.

“Never mind that.” Crowley shakes his head, fumbling for something else to talk about. “Hey, when’s your birthday?”

“I— What?”

“Birthday,” repeats Crowley, lowering his glasses to look at Ezra. “When is it?”

Ezra blinks, even more confused. “June 9th. Wait, why do you ask?”

“Honeysuckle. I don’t think we have that,” mutters Crowley, who now starts pacing about the room, until he stops in front of the rows of filler flowers near the sink. “Oh! Cornflowers!” Crowley yells, suddenly, as he carefully cuts a bunch of said flowers with the shears and hands them to Ezra.

Ezra takes in the sweet scent of the flowers, still bewildered, but also now oddly touched. “What?”

“Cornflowers,” Crowley says, grinning and breathing in heavily as he has another coughing fit. “It’s just— They match your eyes, you know,” he adds, scratching at the back of his head.

_“Oh.”_ Ezra smiles in return, his face heating up at the compliment. “Thank you, Crowley.”

Crowley’s face similarly turns into a light shade of pink, highlighting the patch of freckles scattered across his pale skin which, now that Ezra thinks about it, actually looks quite endearing. He clears his throat, finally, after a few awkward seconds of silence. “Don’t mention it,” he says, hiding his mouth behind his hand. “Listen, I— Uh…”

_“AJ, new order coming in,”_ Anathema suddenly says with a sharp rap on the wooden panel.

_“Shit!”_ Crowley swears, startling like a cat. “Erm. Sorry about that. Could you, erm… Do you mind staying with Ana for a while? Just have to finish what she wants. I mean, what the customer wants. Erm.”

“I don’t mind,” says Ezra, shaking his head. “I’ll just head outside.”

“I’ll go with you, I have to find out what the order is, anyway,” Crowley says, making a face.

Anathema’s holding out an order slip in her hand, eyebrows raised and lips stretched into a tight smile, when Crowley gets the door for Ezra. Crowley immediately snatches the slip, swears again when he sees the writing, and catches Ezra’s eye with an apologetic smile before he disappears behind the door again.

Anathema snickers as she leans back into her chair, gesturing for Ezra to do the same on one of the couches in the store.

“Is he always like that?” asks Ezra, settling himself on a chaise longue that’s seen better days.

“AJ? More or less,” Anathema replies, the tome she’s been reading earlier now conspicuously absent. “He’s sort of like a bad–tempered feral cat you keep out of charity, isn’t he?”

“Is he really? He’s always been rather nice to me.”

“You know that’s because he likes you, right?” declares Anathema, matter–of–factly.

Ezra Fell has always prided himself on always having a ready quip at the tip of his tongue for most circumstances, in at least four languages [2]. A simple expression of gratitude here, some words of encouragement there. But this revelation, like the sun parting the clouds after a particularly grey morning, has at last rendered him speechless for only the second time in his life.

“What?” he squeaks out after a moment.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? He likes you,” Anathema repeats. “I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time. Or bring anyone else to the shop, really,” she adds, moving to sit on the space beside Ezra.

“You know him well,” says Ezra.

“Putting up with his theatrics for a decade does that to you,” Anathema says, sighing.

The door opens just then, revealing Crowley carrying a bouquet of white Ecuadorian roses delicately arranged in a woven basket. “What are you two gossiping about?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at Anathema.

Anathema jumps away from Ezra, brushing at invisible dust on her skirt. “Nothing. We were just talking about how the two of us met.”

Crowley snorts, placing the basket on top of the register as he adjusts the card pinned on the ribbon tied to its handle. “Did you tell him about the part where you almost gave me a heart attack?”

Anathema splutters like she’d accidentally bit her own tongue, taking offence. “I— _You were being dramatic about a _video game,_ AJ.”_

“And _you_ were being nosy about other people’s business, _AJ,”_ replies Crowley, sneering, but with a fond expression behind those dark glasses of his.

Ezra watches as they continue on the back and forth banter from his own perch, wearing a puzzled frown. “It must be strange to have close friends,” he muses.

* * *

1 And Lord knows Ezra has done the same thing himself in the past. [return to text]

2 The less said about his French, however, the better. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might also notice we added chapters. That’s because we realized it’s really not going to fit in 20 chapters. Just something to look forward to, probably.


	6. Delphinium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although this chapter takes place in 2014, the production referenced here actually happened in 2011. It had to be the one we used because, well. You’ll see. Eventually.

Ezra wakes up on a Saturday morning to a buzzing noise near his head, and instinctively swats at it without opening his eyes. But the buzzing still went on, swiftly followed by the sharp sound of something clattering down the wooden flooring, and Ezra’s eyes snap open at once.

Oh, that was his phone.

He sighs, pushing himself off the bed, and picks up the phone. No dents, thankfully. Ezra doesn’t think he could afford a replacement at the moment, with how important the phone is proving to be at his work.

The screen unlocked, it displays a message from Crowley.

“Are you doing something tonight?” it reads.

Ezra’s eyes briefly flicker towards the time display. It’s just a little past eight. He didn’t realize Crowley’s such an early riser.

But why is Crowley even asking in the first place?

Ezra sends back the question, and only has time to yawn and stretch out his arms before his phone started buzzing again, this time with a call.

“Hello, Ezra,” says Crowley’s languid voice from the other end of the line.

“Hello, Crowley,” Ezra replies, stifling another yawn. “What’s this about tonight?”

“I— Erm…” Crowley hesitates, and then clears his throat. “It’s just… I got tickets. To that production at Wyndham’s. Ana had something going on tonight so she couldn’t come. Do you want to? Come to Wyndham’s with me tonight, I mean. Er…”

Ezra smiles fondly as he listens in, raising his shoulder to keep the phone next to his ear as he makes his bed. “Of course. What was the production?”

_“Oh!”_ Crowley exclaims, followed by the hollow sound of a plastic container hitting the floor. It takes a swear and a few moments of heavy breathing before Crowley replies again. “It’s _Much Ado About Nothing._ You like Shakespeare, right? It’s at seven anyway, so we can leave early if you have something else to do.”

“I already told you I’m free tonight, Crowley,” says Ezra, not without fondness, blinking when dust gets into his eyes as he spreads out the comforter. “Should I just meet you at Wyndham’s?”

“Flower shop,” corrects Crowley. “I’ll see you at the flower shop later, alright?”

“Alright,” agrees Ezra. Shortly afterwards, a clicking sound echoes in his ear, telling him that Crowley had already ended the call.

Ezra sits back down at the edge of his bed, still smiling as he smooths out the crinkles that formed on the blankets.

He’d have to figure out what to wear, hadn’t he?

Fortunately, Madame Tracy seems to be in today, judging by the muffled jaunty sixties music wafting from across the hall. She wouldn’t be in any expectation of customers until this evening; it’s a Saturday, after all.

Ezra knocks twice on her door, and rocks himself back and forth on the balls of his feet as he waits for Madame Tracy to hear him.

“Yoo–hoo, who’s out there?” trills Madame Tracy from inside the flat.

“It’s Ezra, Madame Tracy,” Ezra replies. “May I come in?”

“Just a sec, love,” Madame Tracy says, as Ezra hears her unlatching the door.

Madame Tracy herself stands in front of Ezra a moment later, wearing a sheer pink robe over a voluminous sleeping gown, the sleeves of both fur–trimmed. On her hair are large plastic curlers, the kind one would usually find in a salon worn by ladies waiting for their hot oil treatment to set.

“Now, what seems to be the problem, dear?” Madame Tracy asks as she pulls at the sleeves of her robe to cover her wrists.

Ezra smiles sheepishly, suddenly feeling inadequate in his worn pyjamas before her. “Erm…” he starts, and then clears his throat in an attempt to make words come out. “Could you… It’s just… I need help in choosing what to wear for tonight.”

Madame Tracy’s rouged lips spread into a wide grin as she takes Ezra in her arms. “Oh, is that all? I told you there’s no need to be so anxious around me, Ezra. Now, show me your closet, and we’ll see what we can do, alright?”

Ezra nods and leads the way, his arm still linked with Madame Tracy’s.

“Ezra dear,” Madame Tracy says as she holds up one of Ezra’s better coats to the light. “Don’t you own anything that _isn’t_ tweed or tartan?”

Ezra smiles sheepishly, absentmindedly picking at the lint on his comforter.

Madame Tracy hums, continuing on her excavation within Ezra’s closet. “Oh, this one looks good on you,” she says, emerging with a beige twill weave coat Ezra hasn’t seen since he bought it with his first paycheck years ago.

“I don’t think I have to dress up too much, Madame Tracy,” says Ezra, already flinching at the thought of damaging the coat he’s been reserving for special occasions. “We’re just going to a play, after all.”

“Nonsense, it’s at West End,” Madame Tracy tuts, placing the coat in Ezra’s arms. “And you do have to dress up nicely for your young man!”

“Oh, uhm…” Ezra stutters, blushing furiously. “He’s not… Crowley isn’t… Er.”

“Isn’t he?” asks Madame Tracy, tapping a finger to her cheek. “You’ve been going out for a while now.”

“It’s not… We just eat lunch together sometimes,” insists Ezra.

Madame Tracy hums. “Try the coat on, Ezra.”

Ezra obliges, if only to get himself out of Madame Tracy’s knowing gaze, returning a moment later wearing everything Madame Tracy ransacked from his closet.

“Well?” Ezra asks, still unsure.

Madame Tracy places a hand on her chin, giving Ezra sweeping look. “Give it a twirl for me, will you, dear?”

Ezra twirls once, and the tail of his coat flies in the air as Madame Tracy claps delightedly.

“Perfect!” she says, beaming at Ezra. “Now off you go, Cinderella. For you shall go to the ball.”

Ezra giggles. “Thank you, Madame Tracy.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Five o’clock sharp and Ezra is standing at the shop front, fumbling with the buttons on his coat. The bus ride had wrinkled his clothing as well, so he’d have to smooth out the folds too.

He’s barely crossed the street when Crowley shows up by the window, waving excitedly at him. A second later, and he’s sticking his head out of the door. “Hey, Ezra!” yells Crowley, still waving.

Ezra waves back, picking up his pace so that they’re standing toe to toe in no time.

“You’re early,” says Crowley, who looks as if he’s suddenly forgotten what to do with his hands, until he finally settles on placing them on his hips.

_I didn’t want to keep you waiting,_ Ezra had wanted to say, but instead, he says “I was thinking about the traffic.”

“Oh,” Crowley says. “Shall we go then?”

Ezra nods, and Crowley leads the way to his car, opening the door of the passenger side for him.

They arrive at Charing Cross in less than half the usual time, and Ezra nervously smiles at Crowley as he once again opens the car’s door for him, stepping out of it with wobbly legs and thinking they definitely broke several traffic rules in the process.

Crowley places a hand on Ezra’s back, guiding him the first few steps. “Sorry, was that too fast?” asks Crowley sheepishly.

If he could blush right now, Ezra would definitely be blushing. As it is, he just became greener around the gills as he replies “No, not really.”

Crowley furrows his eyebrows. “Are you sure?” he asks, then glances at his watch. “We still have some time left, d’you want to grab something to eat first?”

Ezra is about to politely decline Crowley’s offer, not wishing to impose himself more, when his stomach betrays him, growling loud enough for Crowley to hear. He blushes then, as Crowley smiles crookedly at his direction.

“Come on, I hear the café across the street’s good,” says Crowley, still grinning.

Crowley didn’t get anything for himself again, and Ezra fidgets with his hands as they wait for the server to return with their [1] order at one of the outdoor tables of the café.

“So why this production?” Ezra asks, breaking the ice.

“Ngh?” Crowley says, suddenly sitting up straight from the lounging position he’s assumed on the chair across from Ezra. “Oh, it’s er… I’ve heard their staging is wonderful. Besides, I haven’t been to watch a show in the West End in a while.”

“Oh?” says Ezra, just as the server comes back with his Spanish sardine panini and he thanks her. “So you come here often?” he asks, silently wondering if he should ask how Crowley manages to save up to buy tickets as he’d always meant to do himself.

“All the time,” answers Crowley wistfully, as his gaze shifts towards the setting sun that dyes the sky a frightful blood red. “Used to come down here from Cambridge with my sister so we could catch the latest shows of the season, just the two of us.”

“Anathema?” Ezra asks as he takes a bite into the panini. The bread’s still warm, perfectly toasted, and the cheese and the sardine filling melts into a delightful melody in his mouth.

“Nope,” says Crowley, popping the p as he steals the chips off an indignant Ezra’s plate. “And anyway, it was a long time ago.”

Ezra, sensing that he’s infringing on a sensitive topic, merely replies with the words “I see. Cambridge?”

“Born and bred,” says Crowley, raising his glass of water towards Ezra before drinking from it. “You?”

“Glamorgan,” Ezra replies, puffing up his chest. “Barry, then my family moved to Swansea.”

He hasn’t thought about home in a while. Maybe he should visit, if only to see what had changed. Would they welcome him back, he wonders?

“Huh. Guess I should have noticed the accent sooner,” Crowley says, shrugging. “You always sound as if you’re singing, it’s nice. So, tragedies or comedies?”

“What?” says Ezra, blinking. “Oh. It’s… I did like _Hamlet_ while I was in school, but… sometimes things just happen and you stop wanting to read another tragedy.”

Crowley smiles softly, turning his gaze to face Ezra directly, but Ezra doesn’t meet his gaze. He’s said too much already.

“Comedies, then,” says Crowley, finally.

“Yes,” Ezra says as he tentatively takes another last bite of the panini. “But _Romeo and Juliet_ still holds a special place in my heart.”

“That’s the spirit!” exclaims Crowley, his grin widening again. “You know, if only everyone listened to Juliet, it would have ended up as a straight comedy.”

“Quite right,” Ezra agrees with a raise of his eyebrows, as he sips the tea that came with the panini. “I guess the moral we get from it, or at least one of them, is to listen to someone before they resort to doing something drastic?”

“We should go, I think,” Crowley says, who only stops staring at Ezra to go stare at his watch. “Best be there early before the place gets swamped.”

“You didn’t tell me we had _premium_ tickets,” Ezra says, aghast, when Crowley leads them to where their seats are. Is he even dressed enough for this?

“Ruins the surprise if I told you,” offers Crowley as his only defence.

“I thought you said you were supposed to bring Anathema with you originally?”

“Oh yeah, I did,” says Crowley, who looks as if he didn’t remember that same detail until Ezra reminded him of it.

Ezra hums, raising an eyebrow as he sits on the _very _comfortable chair. He glances behind him momentarily, and sees how packed the theatre is. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?

A hush falls among the crowd as the lights are dimmed and the curtains fall, and Ezra sits up straight, facing the stage.

Finally, the curtains part once again as the stage lights burst into life, revealing a stage designed to look like some kind of resort. Not the original staging, then.

“This should be interesting,” whispers Crowley, leaning towards Ezra as he shields his eyes from the sudden shifting of the lights.

And indeed it is. From the first note of techno–bebop and the revolving stage, to the riotous cacophony of the masque that they staged as a rave party, it truly is a spectacle reminiscent of the 80s [2].

Ezra, for his part, is immensely enjoying himself. He hasn’t seen a production since Year 11, and that was just community theatre, not _West End._

He’s about to turn towards Crowley to say exactly that, when Dogberry cocks his shotgun and the lights dim again, signalling an intermission break.

So instead, Ezra asks “Do you want anything? I’m going to step out for a bit. [3]”

“Huh?” says Crowley, staring at some area of the stage. “No, not really. Intermission is only ten minutes, though, so come back soon.”

Ezra is flicking ash off his trousers as he walks back into the theatre, when he sees a flash of familiar red hair blur past him. Thinking Crowley had stepped out of the theatre as well, Ezra approaches and starts to call out, but as he gets closer, he realises that it wasn’t Crowley after all. A tall woman in a pantsuit with piercing blue eyes instead stares back at him, and Ezra feels his face burning as he lowers his gaze and scurries away as fast as possible. When he’s a safe distance away, he looks back again. The woman has already stopped glaring at his direction and is now talking to a someone else around Ezra’s height, evidently having forgotten about Ezra already.

He slides back into his chair just as the reminder that the intermission is almost finished sounds overhead. Crowley, still staring at distractedly at the stage, doesn’t seem to have noticed his arrival.

“Crowley,” Ezra starts, and Crowley makes a startled noise beside him, taking a moment to recover. “Is your sister in London, by any chance?”

“No?” says Crowley with a scrunch of his face. “She can’t be. Last I heard, her practice is at Glastonbury. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” Ezra wrings his hands on his lap. “I saw someone outside. Kind of looked like you, so I was wondering. What do you mean ‘last you heard?’”

“Oh, we… we don’t talk,” Crowley sighs, his usual grin transforming into a tight–lipped smile. “Not anymore, at least.”

Ezra opens his mouth to speak, but the curtains have already parted to show Hero in her wedding gown [4], and the matter soon forgotten.

“So, how’d you like the show?” Crowley asks as they drive through the city towards Soho.

“It’s… Erm. I knew they’re doing modern productions of Shakespeare nowadays but I didn’t realise how fun they are until now,” says Ezra, staring out of the window, his elbow propped against its edge as he holds his head on his hand. The rain had started pouring outside, blurring the lights they drive past and lending them the appearance of stars.

“Oh?” Crowley tilts his head as he overtakes the car in front of them, the resulting inertia of which causing Ezra to hold on to his seat for dear life. “Thought it wasn’t bad myself. Loved the music. Kind of begs the question, though: where _is _Messina supposed to be in this particular production?”

“Gibraltar? Malta?” Ezra shrugs. “You can’t really blame them for the confusion, as the Bard _did_ give Bohemia a seacoast in _Winter’s Tale._ And anyway, what is it with his tendency to make his characters fake their deaths in the first place? Is that just how they stereotyped Franciscan friars during the Elizabethan era?”

Crowley clears his throat, taking a moment before he replies. “Easiest way to run away from their problems, I guess.”

“Wouldn’t that just end with them having more long–term problems?” wonders Ezra.

“It worked out well for them, didn’t it? Hero still got married to Claudio and her reputation was restored,” Crowley points out.

“Yes, but at the same time, Romeo and Juliet died for real after Juliet fakes her death to get out of her wedding to Paris.”

“That’s the difference between a comedy and a tragedy for you,” says Crowley, as he swerves the car in order to park in front of Ezra’s flat. “Well, here we are.”

Ezra blinks. “Oh, euh… So we are.”

Crowley grins, stepping out of the car first. He’s opening the door of Ezra’s side when Crowley’s phone suddenly beeps, and when Ezra’s stepped out as well and turns around, the cheeky grin is gone, replaced by an unfamiliar sombre expression as Crowley continues to stare at his phone screen.

“Something wrong?” Ezra asks softly, knitting his eyebrows together.

Crowley shakes his head, leaning on the bonnet of the car. “No, it’s… it’s nothing. Good night.”

Ezra nods and walks away, stopping just before he reaches the entrance of the building. “Crowley?” he says, turning around.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For tonight, I mean.”

Crowley breaks into a small smile, and then it disappears again. “Don’t mention it.”

Ezra then enters his flat, standing by the window and watching as Crowley sits inside his car for a good five minutes before finally driving away.

A sign reading closed greets Ezra the next day as he walks to the flower shop. He’s about to leave, thinking no one’s in, when out of the corner of the shop window, he spots Anathema, her back turned as she mists the ferns by the counter.

Ezra takes a deep breath, slowly pushing the unlocked door open as he walks in.

Anathema abruptly pauses in her task when she hears the windchimes announcing Ezra’s arrival. _“We’re closed,”_ she snarls without looking at him.

“Er… it’s me, Anathema,” Ezra says, fidgeting with his hands.

“Oh,” exclaims Anathema as she turns around. “Sorry about that. Customers can be stubborn sometimes, you know,” she adds, placing the plant mister on the countertop.

“Is Crowley in today?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Anathema says, blinking. “Yeah, he’s in. He’s, uh… he’s in the backroom. Had him stay there, _after he just fainted on me.”_

“He _what?”_ says Ezra in a small voice.

_“Shit!”_ Anathema swears, clamping down both hands on her own mouth. “No. No, he’s fine. That always happens, don’t worry.”

Ezra makes a face, still dubious.

“Listen,” sighs Anathema as she settles down on a chair. “Could you take him out for the rest of the day? Distract him for a while? Please?”

“I will… _try,”_ Ezra hesitates. “Thanks for telling me.”

Crowley lays stretched out on the bench, an arm thrown over his eyes as he groans. _“Go away, Ana,”_ he hisses.

“It’s not Anathema,” Ezra simply says.

Crowley raises his arm, slowly opening one eye to take a peek. “That you, Ezra?”

“Yes,” says Ezra, sitting down on the only remaining chair. “Anathema says you fainted earlier. Are you alright?”

Crowley slowly pushes himself upright, wincing with the effort. “Just a migraine. No need to fuss about it.”

“Are you sure?” Ezra asks, fidgeting with a cufflink as he finally notices how pale Crowley looked when compared to yesterday.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” insists Crowley. “What brings you here today?”

Ezra drops the cufflink, resisting the urge to fidget again as he replies. “Oh. Workday’s been cut in half. Some family emergency with the higher–ups? It wasn’t clear. Decided to drop by before going home. Am I disturbing you?”

Crowley shrugs. “Not really.”

Remembering Anathema’s advice, Ezra comes up with a sudden thought. “Do you want to get some ice cream?” he blurts out without really thinking about it.

“Sure,” says Crowley, stumbling for a moment when he attempts to stand up.

Ezra frowns, but declines to comment.

It’s Sunday, around eleven–thirty. St James’s Park is uncharacteristically quiet. No children could be seen chasing each other and muddying up their Sunday best. The ducks in the pond honk expectantly, but no one is throwing breadcrumbs at them [5].

Crowley and Ezra sit on a bench under an oak tree, enjoying their ice creams in silence.

“You know, you can talk about it if you want,” says Ezra, careful not to let his strawberry lolly drip onto his coat.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Ezra,” Crowley replies, before returning to forlornly licking at his vanilla with a flake.

Ezra frowns. Then, noticing the chocolate syrup stuck to the side of Crowley’s mouth, he fumbles with his pockets for a handkerchief and reaches over to wipe it, startling Crowley.

“Sorry,” Ezra says, his own eyes widening.

Crowley continues to blink, now completely facing Ezra.

“What?” Ezra asks.

“Nothing, it’s just…” Crowley starts. “You have some on your cheek, too.”

“I— I do?” says Ezra, touching his free hand to his cheek.

Crowley clears his throat, saying “Here, let me help,” as he takes the handkerchief from Ezra and wipes it away for him.

Ezra stares at Crowley as he does, wondering if he could do something to ease the furrowing of Crowley’s eyebrows, if he could turn the troubled frown on his face back to the now–familiar irreverent smile.

Ezra leans over, and kisses Crowley’s cheek. “Was that too fast?” he asks.

Crowley breathes sharply through his nose, his face turning a shade redder than his hair. “No. No, it’s just right,” Crowley replies, smiling softly.

* * *

1 Well, his. [return to text]

2 Crowley _did,_ however, start scowling when the thespian playing Benedick showed up onstage. And how could he not? The man looked exactly like him, if not for the hair and eyes. [return to text]

3 For a cigarette break, in truth. He’s been trying to quit for a while, but being anxious all the time makes halting his chain–smoking habit hard. [return to text]

4 Which looked too much like a certain former Princess of Wales’. _Definitely_ set in the eighties, then. [return to text]

5Not that breadcrumbs are healthy for waterfowl. If one wishes to feed garden avians, one would be wiser to throw them scraps of lettuce. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be posted on Valentines Day, but it just kept on getting longer and longer.


	7. Aster

Ezra’s been standing by the office door for five minutes now. He’s pretty sure he made his knock on the cedar door loud enough, too. Usually, Gabriel promptly gives an annoyed reply whenever one of them goes to ask him for something; but today, no one has seen their boss at all since he clocked in and locked himself in his office this morning.

Should Ezra just try again? But he really needs Gabriel’s signature on these financial reports right now so he could submit them and finish his shift already.

Ezra takes in a deep breath, and dares to enter the office.

Gabriel’s sitting on his suede executive chair, oblivious to Ezra’s presence. He’s holding a picture frame with both hands, the same one always sitting on his desk that Ezra’s never really paid attention to, eyes glistening as he wears an unreadable expression on his face.

Ezra worries at his lower lip, as he knocks on the door again and pretends not to have seen anything.

“Sir?” Ezra says, and Gabriel looks up, clearing his throat as he places the frame down on the desk.

“What?” is Gabriel’s irate response, as he sits up straighter on the chair.

“I just— Could you sign these papers for me, sir?” says Ezra, tentatively approaching the desk looming before him, and it’s then that he sees the photo up close.

Tilted away from Ezra’s point of view and obscured by the rays of the office’s fluorescent lights, he could only make out some of the details. It’s of a hospital room, or what looks like one. A younger Gabriel’s visible in the foreground, sound asleep on a hospital bed as he’s held in the arms of an older light–haired boy who by all appearances looked as if he was at death’s door.

“Well?” Gabriel suddenly says, slamming the folder shut, startling Ezra who immediately tears his eyes from the picture frame. “You can go.”

Ezra picks up the folder slowly to try and avoid Gabriel’s wrath. “Thank you, sir,” he manages to squeak out.

“Just _leave,”_ says Gabriel through gritted teeth.

Ezra nods, hightailing it out of there before Gabriel has another chance to kick him out altogether.

Crowley’s tidying up the backroom when he hears the windchimes at the door ring, announcing Ezra’s arrival.

“Dear,” Ezra says. “It seems someone’s left their violin by the counter.”

Crowley’s head peeks out from behind the door, pondering about the question. “Oh, that’ll be that American kid, I reckon,” he replies after a moment, with a thoughtful air woven through his tone. “Bought flowers for his mother this morning. Good kid.”

“You sound fond of him,” says Ezra, settling down onto his usual perch at the edge of the chaise longue. “What should we do about it? The poor child must be worrying about where he’d misplaced it. Can’t imagine they come cheap after all.”

“Do I?” asks Crowley, shrugging as he emerges from the backroom, balancing a box full of potted plants on his arms which he then deposits on the counter. “Have a nephew about the same age, maybe that’s why. And anyway, he’d come back for it tomorrow, I’ll just bring it home for the night.”

“Probably for the best,” Ezra agrees. “As long as you don’t forget to take it back to the shop tomorrow?”

“You’ll have to remind me, because when I’m with you,” Crowley says, going around Ezra to land a kiss on his forehead. “I forget about everything else.”

Ezra swats playfully at Crowley’s arm. “Stop that,” he says, smiling. “Just because you’re so tall…”

“I’m actually the shortest brother,” Crowley replies, grinning cheekily back as his hand ruffles through his hair.

“How?” asks Ezra flatly.

“Dunno. Weird genes, I guess.” Crowley shrugs, then offers an arm to Ezra as he slugs the violin case over the shoulder of another. “Where shall we dine?”

“Belgravia. There’s a sushi restaurant I want to show you,” Ezra replies, linking his arm with Crowley’s.

The bell on the door rings as they both enter the little hole–in–the–wall Ezra’s led them to. They take a seat near the window, where the red–and–orange autumn scenery could be quite easily viewed, and the only background noise that could be heard is the soft humming of a conveyor belt running through the entire restaurant, mixed with the muffled beat of a J–pop song playing over speakers of dubious quality.

The restaurant’ owner, Inoue_–san,_ immediately spies Ezra as they enter, tapping one of her staff members on the back before coming over to the table they’d selected.

“Inoue_–san,_ it’s been a while! How’s everything?” Ezra greets with a smile in practised Osaka_–ben._ “How’s your wife?”

“Priyanka’s doing just fine. I swear, she grows lovelier with every trimester,” Inoue_–san_ replies with obvious affection, also in Osaka_–ben._ “I’ll tell her you came by, she’d be delighted. And who’s this?”

“This is, erm… This is Crowley,” Ezra says, with Crowley doing a little wave when he realises the conversation shifted to him. “We’re here for his birthday, actually,” he adds sheepishly.

_“Oh?”_ Inoue_–san_ says with the quirk of an eyebrow. “Dessert’s on the house, then.”

“What? But—”

“I insist,” says Inoue_–san_ with a grin. “Besides, with how much you’ve eaten here in the past months, that’s already enough to make up for it. Just make sure to come back more often.”

“Oh, thank— Thank you, Inoue_–san,”_ Ezra replies, still flustered.

“Don’t mention it,” Inoue_–san_ says, before she nods her head at both Ezra and Crowley. “Enjoy your evening,” she adds, as she returns to the kitchen.

Ezra shifts his attention back to Crowley, who’s staring adoringly up at Ezra with puppy dog eyes, his chin propped up with both hands.

“What?” asks Ezra, feeling heat creeping up his collar.

“You speak Japanese,” Crowley says.

“And a few others,” admits Ezra, fiddling with the fit of his bowtie. “I _did_ graduate linguistics with top marks. French is a little rusty though.”

Crowley hums thoughtfully, splitting his chopsticks in two as his hands hover in midair hesitating about adding wasabi to the saucer of soy sauce. “I only know French. And a bit of Latin. Plus a bit of Spanish from our nanny. Why are you still working with the Christchurch corp if you’re perfectly qualified for an academic position?”

Ezra sighs, smiling thin–lipped. “Needed the financial security,” he replies, picking a piece of _kanimiso_ _gunkan maki_ from his plate and placing it in Crowley’s direction. “Here, try this one,” Ezra adds, a feeble attempt at changing the subject. “You had a nanny?”

“Once.” Crowley pops the _maki _in his mouth while Ezra’s still holding it, contemplating the taste as he swallows it down. “Is this crab? And I think you can still go back to academia if you want.”

“It’s good, isn’t it? The crab meat’s just soft enough and it’s not too salty,” says Ezra, grabbing a plate of squid _sashimi _from the conveyor belt. “That sounds nice, but I _can’t_. I have to save up.”

Crowley frowns back as he snatches another piece of _maki_ from Ezra’s plate. “I still don’t get why you won’t let me help with the surgery,” he sighs.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” tuts Ezra, pouring out some matcha for both of them. “I’ll figure it out. And maybe the NHS will come through this year,” he adds, forcing a smile on his face.

“Maybe,” replies Crowley, sniffing at the matcha and making a face. “Can I add sugar to this? Is that disrespectful?”

“Well, it’s certainly _something,”_ Ezra says, laughing. “Fancy some sake instead?”

“Mr Fell, are you trying to get me drunk?” Crowley asks, waggling an eyebrow before hazarding a sip of the matcha anyway. “By the way, did something happen at work today? You’re a bit late this evening.”

“Oh, I just got a little held up while I was asking Gabriel to sign some documents for me,” Ezra shrugs.

Crowley dips a _tamagoyaki_ onto the soy sauce, scowling as he swirls it around until the entire thing’s covered. “Did he yell at you for something minor again? See, this is why I keep telling you to quit.”

“No. It’s the strangest thing. He hasn’t paid attention to anyone all day. Locked himself in his office the entire time,” Ezra says, nibbling on a slice of pickled ginger. “Found him staring at an old photo on his desk. I think that was his brother in it? Can’t imagine losing someone at that age.”

Crowley abruptly starts coughing, reaching for a nearby glass of water as his face turns a bright shade of red. “Too much wasabi,” he chokes out, swallowing down the glass of water in one gulp. “Think I remember that story. Wasn’t that only a few years back?”

“Don’t think so. They’d both looked really young from what I’ve glimpsed of it,” Ezra says, refilling Crowley’s glass for him before dipping his pinky into the soy sauce to taste it. “It’s not that spicy, dear.”

“I have sensitive tastebuds,” whines Crowley, pouting. “But enough of Gabriel. Aren’t you forgetting _something?”_

“I most certainly am _not,”_ says Ezra, smiling back before leaning across the table. “Happy 30th, Crowley,” he whispers, giving Crowley a quick peck on the cheek, and before Ezra could move away and sit down, Crowley turns his face to kiss Ezra back.

By the time they both pull away and Ezra’s properly seated once again, they’re both flushed and breathing hard, Crowley even more so.

“My place or yours?” asks Crowley with a grin, his voice taking on a husky quality.

“Yours,” Ezra replies, offering a sheepish smile in return. “I, erm… I forgot to tidy up my flat. And your bed is bigger.”

“Came with the flat, what can I say?” Crowley shrugs, then flags down a server to ask for the bill. “Shall we, Mr Fell?”

This time, Ezra _does _correct him. “It’s _Doctor_ Fell, actually. I, er, I have a PhD.”

Crowley stares as he opens and closes his mouth without making a sound, much like a goldfish trying to gulp air on solid ground.

“What?” asks Ezra, entirely innocently.

Crowley blinks slowly as he composes himself. “Nothing,” he says, breaking into a smile. “You just never cease to amaze me, _Doctor_ Fell.”

A loud thud suddenly echoes in Ezra’s ears, snapping him out of a blissful dream that’s already begun to fade from his memory. He’s lying flat on his stomach, arms outstretched to one side, but the familiar curve of Crowley’s body is missing from between them, only the warmth of a recently vacated bed, and Ezra opens his eyes.

That sound, it’s almost as if…

_Crowley!_

Ezra grabs a dressing gown hanging off the side of the footboard and hurriedly puts it on, rushing off to find the source of the noise.

He’s still tying a knot on the flimsy silk belt, when he stumbles into the living room and into Crowley, who’s leaning on the sofa in a dressing robe that matches Ezra’s, a soft smile tugging at his lips as his fingers run along the velvet lining of the violin case.

“Ezra?” Striking hazel eyes stare blearily at Ezra as Crowley finally notices his presence and looks up, a reminder of what Crowley always hides beneath expensive sunglasses.

“Woke up to a crashing noise. I thought something happened,” Ezra says, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides as he goes to sit in the space beside Crowley.

“Oh, that? Slipped on a kitchen rug and banged my head on the counter. ‘S nothing,” says Crowley, ruffling his hair with a sheepish smile.

“Are you sure?” Ezra says, waving his Crowley’s hand away from his head to fuss. “You’ve got a bump.”

“I’ll ice it later,” Crowley replies, wincing as he moves his head away from Ezra’s hands. “Sorry I woke you up.”

“It’s nothing,” says Ezra. “Why were you up and about in the first place?”

“Grabbed some water, slipped, couldn’t go back to sleep,” Crowley says, then sighs as he adds “Been thinking too, I guess. Never imagined I’d be thirty. Not like this, at least. Doesn’t feel real.”

“It _does _take a while to sink in, doesn’t it?” offers Ezra. “Brand new decade and all that.”

“How was it for you?” Crowley asks, his hands hovering on the violin case again. “You turned thirty before we met.”

“Three weeks before, in fact. I think Madame Tracy gave me some pot roast that day?” says Ezra, who really didn’t want to remember the crushing feeling two years ago of having to spend a birthday alone while working overtime.

“Huh. Guess that means I’m your birthday present then,” says Crowley, grinning as he sidles up closer to Ezra. “You know, I used to play the violin.”

“Oh?” Ezra perks up, sitting straight on the sofa [1]. “When was the last time?”

“I think I was… sixteen? Seventeen? Yeah, seventeen,” Crowley says, tapping his fingers on the case as he thinks. “Ana was having a rough day, and well. I didn’t have anything else better to do either.”

“Ah.”

“I have an idea,” says Crowley all of a sudden, bolting upright from his seat.

“It’s two in the morning, Crowley,” Ezra points out with a yawn.

“Yeah?” Crowley says, grinning as he opens the case and takes the violin out. The dim light from the street lamps reflects off the instrument’s varnish, making its details hard to make out. “It’s gonna be fine. Plus I don’t think Warlock would mind too much if I borrow it tonight,” he adds, placing the violin on his shoulder and his chin on the rest, as he tries out a chord and winces. “That wasn’t quite right. I’m out of practice.”

_“Warlock?”_ says Ezra, trying not to laugh.

“Yeah. Poor kid,” Crowley agrees as he pulls another attempt at playing. “Boarding school’s not gonna be nice to him. Oh, here we go.”

“Like you’d know what boarding school is like,” Ezra says, then raises an eyebrow when he realises why the melody Crowley’s playing sounds familiar. “Are you just playing the birthday song for yourself?”

“Maybe. It’s still my birthday in some other timezone,” says Crowley, shrugging with his free shoulder. “I’ll play something else,” he declares as he raises the bow away from the strings and pauses to think.

The new melody starts out on a melancholic pace, evoking the feeling of reminiscing about fond memories. It builds up and turns into a faster pace, like chasing after someone through a garden maze, before it returns to the beginning and reminds one that happiness is but fleeting. Crowley keeps looking behind him through the entire thing, almost as if he was expecting someone else playing alongside him.

Ezra finds himself starting to drift off with the calm the music brings, when Crowley abruptly stops.

“Why’d you do that?” asks Ezra, yawning as he blinks up slowly at Crowley. “It was beautiful.”

“Couldn’t remember the rest. It sounds better when there’s someone at the piano as accompaniment,” Crowley replies, placing the violin back in its case and somehow making the act look like a mother tucking in her child. _“And_ you’re about to fall asleep, so it worked anyway.”

Ezra tries and fails to suppress another yawn when Crowley goes back to sitting beside him. “What was the song?”

_“Liebeslied._ Love’s Sorrow,” says Crowley, wrapping his arm around Ezra. “Bed now?”

“Let’s just stay here a while longer,” Ezra replies, leaning his head against Crowley’s shoulder as he lets his eyes droop close.

“Alright,” says Crowley, bringing his other arm around to close the loop. “Good night, Ezra.”

“Good night, Crowley,” says Ezra, who finally allows himself to drift off, secure in the knowledge that Crowley would still be there in the morning.

* * *

1 This was entirely new, as Crowley has rarely volunteered information without being first prompted. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this (and every other chapter that has art) is from temporalSilence.


	8. Celandine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone's fine during lockdown.

The cold winter air follows Ezra into the shop as he enters, the snowflakes that are blown in melting onto the worn welcome mat that really needs to be replaced at some point.

“Hello, Anathema,” says Ezra, as he sheds most of his layers and brushes away the snow that had piled on the top of his head. “Where’s Crowley?”

Anathema, who’s cataloguing the ribbons behind the counter, turns around to face Ezra, tapping a pen to her cheek. “Backroom,” she sighs. “Cold weather’s never agreed with him.”

Ezra pauses midway through pulling the gloves off his hand to look up. _“Oh._ Is he alright?”

“Yeah,” Anathema says without much confidence. “Yeah, he’s fine. Just needs to hibernate, as it were,” she adds, as she slams the logbook close and flutters over to sit on the chaise longue, skirts billowing behind her.

“I’ll… see you later, then?” Ezra asks. Sometimes, he just really doesn’t understand either of these two.

Anathema smiles, waving at Ezra before she pushes her glasses up with her pointer finger and settles down to read a book she’d pulled out of her pocket.

Crowley’s napping stretched out on the bench when Ezra gets in the backroom. His glasses are clutched to his chest as another arm is thrown over his eyes to block out the fluorescent lights, lips slightly parted as he breathes out through them, snoring lightly.

Ezra’s lips tug into a smile as he makes his way across the room, taking slow, deliberate steps to avoid making any noise. He raises Crowley’s head and places it on his lap as he sits down next to Crowley, humming softly as he massages Crowley’s temple.

Eyes still shut tight, Crowley reaches up to cup Ezra’s face with an icy hand. “Hey, Ezra,” he says, voice thick with sleep as he rubs his thumb over Ezra’s cheek.

“Migraine again?” Ezra asks, placing his free hand on top of Crowley’s.

“Amongst other things,” says Crowley, yawning as he finally opens his eyes to stare blearily at Ezra. “I hate the cold.”

“You poor thing,” Ezra replies, patting Crowley’s forehead right smack in the middle and causing Crowley to glare at him. “Try to bundle up more next time, dear.”

“I can’t help it if I have bad circulation,” whines Crowley, pouting exaggeratedly. “And here I was about to tell you I saved some macarons.”

Ezra twirls a loose lock of Crowley’s hair around his finger. “Such a baby,” he says, smiling fondly. “Where are the macarons now?”

“In the car.” Crowley scowls, groaning as he pushes himself upright into a sitting position, holding onto Ezra’s shoulder for support. “Hey,” he says, pausing to take a deep breath. “D’you… Do you want to move in with me?”

“What?” says Ezra, flatly.

“I said,” Crowley says, rubbing at his eyes before putting on his glasses. “Do you want—”

“No, I heard you the first time,” Ezra says, rather impatiently, until he catches himself. “Sorry. Why ask all of a sudden, anyway?”

Crowley shrugs. “I don’t know. Feels like the right thing to do, me staying at your house half the time and you staying at mine. So, what do you think?” he asks again, sidling closer to Ezra.

“I don’t know,” Ezra says, humming as he thinks. “I just paid this month’s rent, seems like a waste if I move out right now.”

“At least think about it?” says, Crowley, looking up at him with puppy dog eyes.

“Oh, _alright,”_ says Ezra, sighing, as he swipes a hand through Crowley’s face to make him stop blinking. “I’ll think about it.”

Ezra seals the last of the boxes with packaging tape, then takes a step back to survey his flat. This is really it, huh? His life for the past six years, all packed up neatly in four corrugated boxes and two suitcases. Madame Tracy had thrown a little something for him last night, shepherd’s pie and a few glasses of cheap champagne, dragging along her latest beau, a surly middle–aged man who keeps looking at Ezra funny [1].

He’s tapping a knuckle on one of the boxes when he hears the Bentley’s engine roaring outside, and a few moments later, Crowley himself is knocking at his door.

Ezra unlatches the door, and Crowley’s face immediately pops up on the other side, beaming as he waves at Ezra.

“Ready?” Crowley asks, sauntering into what remains of Ezra’s flat.

Ezra hums, rocking himself back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I guess so,” he mumbles eventually.

“I’ll take these to the car, then,” says Crowley, moving to pick up one of the boxes.

Ezra immediately frowns at him, swatting at Crowley’s arm. “I know you have scoliosis, Crowley. Don’t even try.”

“It’s gonna be _fine,”_ Crowley says, waving him off and bending over as he tries to lift the box. _Tries_ being the keyword, as he only manages to lift the box an inch off the floor before dropping it again with a groan. _“Ow._ What’s in this box, anyway?” he asks as he plops down on the floor and leans against the box.

“My hardcovers,” replies Ezra. “I told you not to try. Here, let me do it,” he adds, as he rolls up his sleeves and places both hands at opposite edges of the box.

Crowley ogles at him, causing Ezra to turn crimson as he asks “What?”

“Quite indecent of you, Dr Fell,” Crowley says, wearing a foxy grin.

“We _share_ a bed, Crowley,” Ezra replies exasperatedly. “And if you _must _insist on helping, the bags are much lighter.”

“I’ll get them, then,” says Crowley, jumping up and pulling at the handles of both the suitcases at the same time.

Ezra shakes his head, watching fondly as Crowley exits the flat, lugging the suitcases behind him, before he turns around and spares his flat one last glance.

“What’s all this, then?” Ezra asks, as he looks over the boxes he’s carrying to see that there are paint cans and newspapers scattered around Crowley’s kitchen.

“Oh, the paint?” says Crowley, turning around from locking the door, as he places the suitcases to the side. “I don’t know. I just thought, since we’re moving in together, why not repaint the walls? Haven’t started yet, though. Maybe you’d like to pick a colour?”

“Why not?” Ezra says, placing the boxes beside the coffee table and wiping the dust off his hands on his trousers. “Which ones did you buy?”

“Erm, the entire hardware shop?” Crowley shrugs.

_“What?”_

“Angel, I could not have been more clearly joking,” says Crowley, who breaks into a grin as he walks over to Ezra’s side and sneaks a kiss on his cheek. “Primary colours, mostly. I have no idea what to paint a kitchen.”

Ezra snorts, patting Crowley’s cheek. “I’m sure you chose well. Let’s see what you have, shall we?” he says, letting Crowley lead him by the hand towards the kitchen.

“Pale blue?” Ezra reads as he picks up the can closest to him, tying the work apron at his back with one hand.

“Reminded me of your eyes,” admits Crowley, sheepishly, as he ruffles the hair at the back of his head.

Ezra hums thoughtfully. “That’s a song, I think. One of your bebops in the car?”

“Maybe,” Crowley says. “So we’re using that colour?”

“Perhaps,” replies Ezra, in the same tone of voice Crowley just used. “Where are the brushes?”

Crowley opens a drawer near the sink. “Over he—”

Ezra cuts him off as Crowley turns back around, tapping Crowley’s nose with a finger dipped in paint, leaving a streak of blue as he lets the finger slide off Crowley’s nose with a barely–suppressed giggle.

“Oh, so that’s what you’re playing at, huh?” says Crowley, his voice taking on a husky quality, as he picks up the can of paint Ezra had left on the floor, splashing the hem of Ezra’s trousers.

“I think we missed a spot,” says Crowley, laying splayed out on the floor, breathing heavily as he turns his head to look at Ezra lying next to him. He’s grinning, wiping away a streak of blue paint from his cheek with the back of his hand, but all it does is smear it all over his freckles.

Ezra tries to push himself up to see, but decides not to at the last minute, lying back down again. “Oh?” he says instead.

“Yeah,” Crowley replies, pointing to a spot on the wall where it meets the floor. “We wouldn’t have seen it ‘cause we were upright while painting, but now it’s pretty obvious now,” he says, huffing as he rolls over so he’s lying down on his stomach. “Should we paint it again?”

Ezra hums as he uses his elbows to prop himself up into a sitting position. “I don’t think anyone’s going to notice, let’s just leave it be. What about your landlord, wouldn’t they be mad we’d repainted?”

“Oh, he’s fine with it. Probably,” says Crowley, shrugging. “Help me up?” he asks as he flashes Ezra his puppy dog eyes look.

“Fine,” Ezra sighs, moving to stand and pull Crowley up by his arms.

There’s the sound of a joint popping, and Crowley groans, wobbly on his feet. “Thanks, angel,” he says, touching a hand to his forehead.

“Alright, dear?” Ezra asks, keeping his hand on Crowley’s arm to keep him steady.

“Fume’s getting to me,” Crowley replies. “Should have aired out the room, to be honest.”

“Living room, then?” Ezra says as he leads Crowley out of the kitchen and helps him settle down on the living room sofa.

“Much better,” sighs Crowley, smiling at Ezra before he leans his head back on the sofa’s backrest and inhales deeply, just as the doorbell starts ringing and he looks back up again.

“I’ll get it,” Ezra says, turning towards the door before Crowley could protest.

Ezra fails to see anyone outside the door by the time he opens it, but there _is_ an envelope waiting by his feet.

He picks it up.

Ezra flips it over, and almost immediately, the NHS logo embossed on the corner of the envelope catches his attention, as well as his own name at the centre of it. It takes him aback, until he remembers that he’d already changed his home address at their registry. But why would they be writing him no—

Oh. Oh, _dear._

He places the envelope in his pocket, hands shaking, and walks back inside.

“Who was it?” asks Crowley, who’s already lying down on the sofa, legs dangling off the side.

“It’s, euh… Got a letter. From the NHS,” Ezra replies, fishing the letter out of his pocket as he sits beside Crowley and hands him the envelope.

Crowley takes it, squinting at the seal. “You haven’t opened it?”

“I don’t want to know,” says Ezra, flinching and shaking his head.

“Too late,” Crowley says, followed by the sound of paper ripping.

Ezra’s head snaps towards Crowley, who has the letter in his hand and the envelope on the floor as he jumps up to avoid Ezra trying to snatch the letter away.

“Well?” says Ezra, who already knows trying to snatch anything away from Crowley when he’s stretched out to his full height is a pointless exercise.

Crowley sighs aloud, frowning as he folds the letter again and places it down on the coffee table. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” says Ezra, trying not to sound too disappointed. “There’s always next year.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Crowley says, pulling Ezra up from the sofa. “I’m sorry that you’ll have to go to the hospital next week. _Because they approved your surgery!”_ he adds, breaking into a grin.

“You’re kidding!” Ezra says, bursting into a startled laugh as Crowley starts twirling him around the room.

Crowley joins his voice to Ezra’s laughter, the dimples in his cheeks showing. “No, I’m not. Read it!”

“You’re actually serious!” says Ezra, still unable to believe his ears.

“Yes!” Crowley insists, as he dips Ezra and sneaks another kiss. “You know, I should teach you how to dance.”

“Why not start now?” Ezra says, dizzy with giddiness, as he rests his head on the crook of Crowley’s shoulder. “I love you, Crowley.”

“I know,” Crowley replies, smiling fondly.

* * *

1 Ezra gives the relationship half a year. To be quite honest, that’s already a record for Madame Tracy. [return to text]


	9. Violet

The Bentley sputters to a halt, and the sudden braking wakes Ezra up as his head hits the headrest of his passenger seat.

“G’morning,” says Ezra, yawning and squinting at the glare of the sun hits his eyes. He’s about to raise his hands to rub sleep off his eyes, when he stops himself.

“It’s half–past three, angel,” Crowley replies, looking sheepish as he tilts his head to face Ezra. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“It’s fine. Are we home yet?” asks Ezra through another yawn as he unbuckles his seatbelt.

“Yep. We’re back at our flat,” Crowley grins back, seemingly relishing in the plural possessive, unbuckling his own seatbelt and stepping out of the car.

Ezra begins to do the same, but finds the door on his side of the car wouldn’t budge. “Anthony, dear, the door’s jammed again.”

“No, it’s not,” says Crowley, merrily going his way around the car and fiddling with the door handle. “It’s just locked from the outside. Here we go,” he adds as he knocks on the window before he opens the door and offers a hand for Ezra to take.

“Oh, thank you, Crowley,” Ezra says, flashing Crowley a winning smile as he takes the offered hand.

“Not so fast, Dr Fell,” says Crowley, tugging Ezra by the arm and pulling him close, and then bending down to sweep Ezra off his feet and carry him bridal–style in Crowley’s arms. “I’m not letting you walk, you just had surgery.”

_“Elective_ surgery, Crowley, as the NHS likes to remind me,” Ezra says, squealing as Crowley hoists him up and starts climbing the stairs. “Put me down!” he yells, hitting Crowley’s arm as they start to laugh.

_“Nope,”_ says Crowley, popping the p, out of breath at the effort of climbing the stairs with Ezra’s weight in his arms. “Welcome home, angel,” he says, planting a chaste kiss at Ezra’s crown as they cross the threshold, and Crowley carries him all the way upstairs to their bedroom.

Crowley grins as he lays Ezra down on their king–sized bed, fluffing up the pillow. “Best be sleeping when I get back,” Crowley says, tucking Ezra into bed with the tartan comforter he loves. When had Crowley switched them out? 

“You’re leaving?” Ezra asks, eyebrows knit together as he raises his head from the pillow, looking up at Crowley.

“Still need to run some errands,” says Crowley, tapping Ezra’s nose with a finger. “Be home by dinner, don’t worry about it.”

“Crowley?”

Crowley turns his head to face Ezra, cocking up an eyebrow. “Yes, angel?”

“Nothing,” says Ezra, leaning back onto the pillows, as his eyes slowly droop close. “Come home soon.”

“You know I will,” Crowley promises, raising his glasses for a moment to punctuate the sentence with a wink.

“—ra? Wake up, angel.”

Ezra tentatively opens an eyelid, hissing at the sharp stinging on his torso, his senses returning to him all at once.

“Yeah, I thought so,” says Crowley goodnaturedly, coming into Ezra’s view holding up the pill bottle, shaking it in his hand. He’s not wearing his glasses. “Come on, let’s get you up.”

“Why is it so dark?” Ezra asks, as Crowley supports his head to help Ezra up into a sitting position.

“It’s almost nine. You’ve slept the entire day,” Crowley replies, handing Ezra one of the pills from the now–open bottle and a glass of water from the tray settled at the edge of the bed. “Understandable, really. And anyway, you’re cute when you sleep, so that’s an unexpected bonus.”

“You’ve known me four years and you find that out just now?” Ezra smiles wryly, before he pops the pill in his mouth and washes it down. The water’s at room temperature, so the glass must have been out for some time considering the condensation around its surface.

“Hey, it’s not my fault I always fall asleep before you do,” Crowley huffs, eyes wandering as he gives Ezra a silent once–over. “We need to change your bandages.”

“What?” says Ezra, who looks down on his button–up pyjama top to see the spots of blood that were seeping through. _“Oh.”_

Crowley chuckles, breaking into a crooked smile. “I’ll get them,” he says, patting Ezra’s thigh as he stands up, swaying slightly on his feet.

“Crowley? Are you alright?” asks Ezra, following Crowley’s steps with his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just need some aspirin, ‘sall,” Crowley replies, shrugging half–heartedly. “There’s some pho on that tray, by the way. Or I could boil up some broth, if you like?”

“Pho is fine,” Ezra says, inching his way towards the edge of the bed to remove the cover of the bowl on it, the meaty scent of the broth wafting its way to him. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Mm, yeah. Course I did,” replies Crowley, leaning against the door frame. “Can I go now?”

Ezra looks up from sipping the broth, looking sheepish. “Sorry, yes.”

“You’re good at this,” observes Ezra, inspecting the bandages Crowley had wrapped around his torso.

“‘Course I am, I went to medical school,” says Crowley, grinning smugly at Ezra. “It’s not too tight, is it?”

“Oh, no, it’s not,” Ezra says, wiggling around to prove his statement; then he blinks, as Crowley’s words suddenly sink in. “Wait, you went to _what?”_

“I went to medical school,” repeats Crowley, as casually as if he was just stating the weather. “Dropped out the last term, though. What?”

Ezra frowns, nodding along and feigning disinterest as he pulls a fresh pyjama top over his shoulder. “Was that why you were acting weird when I told you I have a doctorate?”

_“No,_ I was just being amazed that my _boyfriend_ has achieved so much,” says Crowley, dryly, as he steals the last remaining beef chunk in the cooling bowl of pho. “Go back to sleep, angel.”

“What about you then?” Ezra asks, raising an eyebrow. “It’s late.”

“Laundry,” says Crowley, raising the stained pyjamas with both hands in Ezra’s face.

“It can wait,” says Ezra, tapping the empty side of the bed next to him. “Come to bed, dearest.”

“At least let me change first?” says Crowley, blinking his eyes up at Ezra.

“I’m keeping my eyes on you, Anthony,” Ezra says, placing two fingers in front of his eyes before pointing them at Crowley’s direction.

Crowley grins, all fox–like that Ezra’s sure he’s plotting something again. “You better do,” he says, deliberately pulling his shirt over his head as slowly as possible, showing off the skinny figure underneath, his pale skin reflecting the moonlight, smooth and unblemished but for a raised scar partly hidden by the thatch of dark hair on his chest.

“You never did tell me why you have that scar,” muses Ezra, whose eyes are already beginning to droop as the effects of the painkillers hit him in full.

“Lost a duel to my mum’s pet peacock,” Crowley replies nonchalantly as he rummages through the dresser for his nightshirt.

Ezra blinks himself awake. “What?”

“Kidding, angel,” says Crowley, who finally settles on a ratty old band shirt to pull over his head. “I’m actually an android, that’s where you install my batteries. Haven’t you ever wondered why I used to live alone? I escaped the production line.”

“Really, my dear,” Ezra sighs, rolling his eyes with a slight smile.

“Okay, okay,” says Crowley, laughing as he raises his hands up. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t have a heart as a baby and they had to put one in?”

Ezra snorts, throwing a pillow at Crowley, who catches it before the pillow hits his face. “Just… just come to bed, dear,” Ezra says.

Crowley shrugs, launching himself headfirst onto the bed. “What do you think?” asks Crowley, the volume of his voice lowering, as he wraps his arms around Ezra. “Should I get it tattooed over?”

Ezra hums, turning around to face Crowley, tracing the gnarled skin over his shirt. “What kind?” asks Ezra, suppressing a yawn.

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Crowley, now in a hushed whisper, as he buries his face in Ezra’s hair. “Snake maybe?”

“Winding itself around the scar? I could see it,” agrees Ezra. When the expected response doesn’t come, Ezra looks up. “Crowley?” he calls out.

Crowley’s already fast asleep, his soft breaths hitting Ezra’s cheek, making him ticklish. He’s been running himself ragged recently, it’s nice to see him get some proper rest for a change.

Ezra shifts himself closer until there’s only a hair’s breadth of distance between him and Crowley, then loops an arm around Crowley’s sleeping form as he closes his eyes and lets the drowsiness overtake him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special mention to those who helped with Crowley’s joke responses, you know who you are. Thanks a bunch!


	10. Carnation

It’s a warm day, with rainbow–themed decorations lining the streets, when Crowley and Ezra attend Pride together for the first time. Ezra’s been attending Pride for quite a while now; in nearly every booth they’d passed so far, Ezra had known someone on the other side. Crowley had only been here once before, a long time ago, back in his university days with a few friends. 

He prefers this, though, being introduced as Ezra’s partner. It feels nice to walk hand in hand with his boyfriend on a day as nice as this one, even with the small groups of protesters, as there always are, as there most likely are always going to be. The atmosphere is pleasant, filled with excitement, love, and — well, _pride._

Crowley had felt faint this morning, especially with the migraine auras that keep on coming back — Ezra had told him they could stay home, that they could go next year, of course — but Crowley had wanted to go out with him and share the experience. Besides, he knows he’d have fun, and seeing the love of his life so happy and full of joy made his heart flutter in his chest.

The Pride festivities have grown since the last time Crowley has seen it. There are more vendors lining the streets, more food trucks and information booths. Most of them hadn’t been around when he’d first gone with a few of his mates, which feels to him like a million light–years away. It’s times like these that he feels remarkably old — though he’s not, not really. Neither’s Ezra, even though he’s two years older than Crowley is. With any luck, they’ll get to grow old together —

_Oh._

That’s… not something he’d thought of until just now, that he’d want to spend the rest of his life with someone. That same someone who’s currently holding his hand and eagerly dragging him to a tent selling empanadas. Crowley’s too dumbstruck to really protest, and instead lets Ezra order for the both of them. Crowley is, however, present enough to pull out his wallet to pay for it, much to Ezra’s protests, which were silenced with a quick kiss. They stand to the side to wait for their food, as Ezra idly chatters about what to do and what tents and booths they should visit. Crowley’s half–listening, nodding and humming with only a few real answers, as his mind races about this sudden revelation.

See, he’s never really thought about anything long–term until this very moment. Of _course _he knows he loves Ezra — that’s one of the very few things he’s sure of. Really, he’s just not been sure if anyone would want to spend that much time with _him_, with the migraines and achy bones, the coarse personality and his tendencies to threaten plants _(and the secrets, can’t forget about the secrets)_. But all of this with Ezra — what they’ve had together this whole time, it’s something pure and good and it’s everything Crowley’s ever wanted. The real question is if he proposed the proper way, ring and gesture and speech, would Ezra accept it? Or would he —

“Darling, which would you like?”

Crowley is snapped out of his thoughts with the question, as Ezra holds up a plate of deep–fried dough for him to choose. Crowley makes a noncommittal noise, shrugging. Honestly, he wasn’t really sure exactly when Ezra had left to get the food.

“Never had ‘em,” Crowley replies, looking just slightly over the top of his sunglasses. It’s too bright to have them off by a longshot, and even with them on, everything is still bright.

Ezra beams back at him, taken aback for only a moment. “Oh! Well, I enjoy the chicken ones, but they’re all rather good in my opinion. Here, try this one,” he says, holding one up for Crowley to try.

Crowley obliges, taking a small bite as it’s offered. He’s surprised at the taste, savoury and a tang of spice. He nods, taking the rest from Ezra to have another bite. Ezra seems rather pleased with himself, selecting another from the plate for himself as Crowley leads them over to a table that’s been set up nearby, and they both enjoy the meal in comfortable silence, basking each other’s company. It’s the first real outing since Ezra’s surgery a month or so prior — it had been his idea for them to go out, as a celebration — and Crowley’s content to watch him enjoy the festivities around them.

“Once we’re done,” Ezra starts, taking another bite. “We should shop around a bit — even if we don’t buy anything, it’s your first one in such a long time, it’s only right!” Crowley laughs and rolls his eyes behind his glasses, taking another bite out of the flakey pastry.

“We’ve plenty of time, angel,” he replies, pulling his phone out to check the time. It’s not even two yet, they’ve the rest of the afternoon to spend walking and shopping and, as Anathema had put it, _making eyes_ at each other.

They finish lunch, absentmindedly discussing plans for the rest of the day and what they’ll have for dinner before deciding they’re ready to move along to peruse the booths and observe other eager young couples celebrate. Ezra can’t help but smile as he watches all of the festivities. Crowley, for his part, cannot stop looking at Ezra’s cheery face while being overly aware of the feeling of their intertwined fingers as they walk along.

“I don’t think I was ever that happy as a kid,” Crowley jokes, watching as two girls apply temporary rainbow tattoos to their cheeks with a bottle of water.

Ezra gives him a gentle nudge with his elbow, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think I was either, not as a teenager,” he replies as Crowley squeezes his hand, a steady comfort. “I’m glad I’m happy here with you.”

Crowley makes a strangled noise, face flushing. Despite being flustered, he raises their connected hands up to kiss the back of Ezra’s hand. They walk along a while longer when Ezra suddenly tugs him towards a booth set up with miniature pride flags — the type to sit in a cup on one’s desk. He holds one up — trans pride colours — and waves it jokingly, beaming at Crowley. He doesn’t have to ask Ezra before he’s pulling out his wallet, handing cash to the attendee and selecting a rainbow flag for himself.

“We can keep ‘em on the table,” Crowley states nonchalantly, “Housewarming present to ourselves, you could call it.”

“Thank you,” Ezra replies, reaching forward to grab one of Crowley’s hands to pull him in for a kiss. Ezra pulls away, a smirk on his face, with his hand still in Crowley’s own. “You know, you keep this up and people will think we have a, ah — an arrangement, you know.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes behind his glasses. “Honestly, angel, if anything people would be thinking the _opposite_,” he teases back, “A spry young thing like me? Being seen with an _older gentleman?”_

“Only two years!” Ezra argues with a laugh. He takes a step back, pulling Crowley to come along. “Now, we’ve plenty to see, let’s go!”

They’re walking hand in hand together, chatting about what to get for dinner, when the collision happens. It’s Ezra who gets bumped into, and rather roughly at that. Crowley doesn’t even get the chance to be snappish before the other person is apologizing.

“Oh, God,” the person — a woman, Crowley realizes, from the pronoun pin she’s wearing — says, taking a tumble while her bag goes flying a few feet in front of her. She looks up from her spot on the ground, her jeans sporting a few newly–torn spots. _“Shit!_ I’m so sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going!”

Ezra is a bit shaken, as he takes a moment to realize what happened, but near–instantly hurries over to help her up. Crowley is at his side just as fast, looking down at the girl. She’s no older than seventeen, short and petite with a smattering of dark freckles from her cheek, up across her nose and forehead, wearing a rainbow shirt with a pin and patch–filled denim jacket over the top.

“Oh, no hard feelings dear. Come on, let's get you up. Quite a tumble you took there, best to just be careful next time,” Ezra tuts kindly, taking her elbow to help her up before going for the messenger bag that had gone flying. “I wasn’t watching where I was going either. Anthony, darling, can you grab that pin by your foot?”

Crowley kneels down, picking up the face–down pin. When he flips it around, his heart leaps into his throat suddenly, head swimming.

“Thank you,” the girl tells him, reaching out and carefully taking the pin from his hand.

He doesn’t catch the rest of the conversation, too focused on how his vision is swimming and the pounding of his heart in his ears. He’s sure that Ezra is still talking to her — his voice is a comforting buzz at the back of his mind, like white noise. Crowley latches onto it, trying to keep himself grounded through the building pressure behind his eyes. Normally his migraines don’t come on so fast, so out of nowhere. There’s usually a build–up or some kind of stressor, or he wakes up with one already pounding in his head. This one had snuck up on him, and now he’s trying his best to keep up with steady breathing. Crowley doesn’t notice when the girl runs off, her name being called from up ahead.

“Crowley? Oh, dear, are you alright?” Ezra places a hand on his arm, enough to ground him back to reality and away from the pain.

When Crowley opens his eyes _(he hadn’t even realized he’d shut them, when did that happen?)_, Ezra has a look of concern on his face, eyebrows furrowed together and bottom lip between his teeth.

Crowley wants to shake him off, but he doesn’t particularly have the extra strength to waste on such a gesture. “Jus’ a headache,” he slurs. “All the light and noise. Y’know how it is, angel.”

Crowley tries to ignore how much his chest has started to hurt. Normally the migraines don’t come with this. He comes to the conclusion that it must be a panic attack, with the sudden pain and the crowd and whatnot. Normal for someone in pain, to be a bit flighty. That’s all it is. No need to —

“Come on,” Ezra tells him, taking his arm carefully, “we have the whole weekend. Let’s get you home, I’ll drive.”

Crowley whines in protest, but doesn’t shoo him away as he’s led away to the Bentley. “Angel, you _never_ drive,” he responds, trying to control his breathing. He has to focus on not being sick, with how queasy he’s feeling. He can hear his heart in his ears, trying to focus on the repetitive beating. 

Ezra let out an amused little _hmph_, half–dragging him along. “I’m perfectly capable of driving, my love, I _do_ have my license!” he says, pressing a quick kiss to Crowley’s temple. “I just enjoy letting you drive me about. I know it makes you happy.”

Crowley sighs, resting his head against Ezra’s shoulder as they get to the Bentley. Ezra opens the back door to deposit Crowley carefully, making sure it doesn’t hurt his back — it’s sore just from walking around this afternoon.

“You’re a peach,” Crowley mumbles out to no one in particular, one arm tossed over his eyes to block out more light.

Ezra smiles and shuts the door to get in the driver’s seat. Crowley groans when the car lurches forward, just as Ezra lets out a stream of apologies. The drive is mostly silent, with Ezra focused on navigating London traffic and Crowley focused on not throwing up in the backseat.

The drive is short enough — Crowley is pleasantly surprised, what with how London drivers are — and soon enough the car comes to a stop outside of their shared flat.

Ezra opens the back door for him, helping him out and swinging his arm around his shoulders. “Here we are,” Ezra says under his breath, shutting the Bentley’s door with his foot. He helps Crowley to the front door, unlocking it and pushing it open. “Come now, let’s get you into bed.”

“I can walk on m’ own,” Crowley states flatly, removing his arm from Ezra’s shoulders and making towards their shared bedroom.

It gives Ezra time to close the door and then move to the kitchen to get a glass of water to take back to their room. He has the forethought to grab a granola bar from the pantry and a bottle of paracetamol from the bathroom cabinet behind him.

Crowley’s settled himself into bed, the lights off and his glasses sitting on the nightstand on his side of the bed. Ezra can tell he’s still awake with the way he’s still tense, and he sets the granola bar next to the glasses as he sits down at Crowley’s side.

“Take some before you nap,” he tells him as he watches Crowley sit up. “I’m sure it’ll be better than just napping.” 

Crowley hums and takes the pill bottle first, shaking out four pills before taking the glass of water. “Thanks, angel.”

“Is it alright for you to take four?” Ezra asks as Crowley takes a swig from the glass before popping the pills, grimacing as he swallows.

He takes another swig from the bottle. “‘S fine,” he says with a wave, “Used to take more way back when.” He pauses a moment, frowning as he crosses his arms. “‘M sorry I ruined today.”

Ezra shakes his head, scooting further up the bed to lay a kiss to Crowley’s temple. “You did nothing of the sort,” he replies, tone firm as he presses another kiss to Crowley’s cheek. “I had a wonderful time. And now I’m going to go put our flags up, and do some reading, and I’ll be in to join you.”

With one last gentle press of his lips on Crowley’s he leaves, closing the door to be only open a crack behind him. Crowley stares after him as he goes but once the dark room is silent, he falls asleep.

Crowley wakes with a start, shaken from some dream suddenly. He groans and rolls to look at the time on his phone, squinting in the darkness at the bright screen. It’s nearly nine in the evening, he’s slept for almost six hours, but it seems to have paid off. No headache, no tight chest, and his bones have stopped protesting every movement for now.

Ezra’s not in bed with him yet — probably out in the living room curled up with a book, losing track of time. Crowley can’t help but smile at the thought, his bookish partner settled in with a novel and a mug of cocoa. Though, as Crowley unlocks his phone, he can’t help but think — it’s a good thing Ezra’s not in the room at the moment. Crowley scrolls through his list of contacts until one lights up. He takes a deep breath before hitting the icon.

He needs to make a call.


	11. Cistus

“Hey, Ana, d’you have a minute?” Crowley says over the ringing of the wind chimes, entering the flower shop with a green pastel–coloured box of macarons that he raises to his face like a peace offering.

“What did you do this time?” says Anathema, frowning as she adjusts the frame of her glasses, slamming Agnes’ ancient tome shut.

Crowley scowls back, clearing a space in the middle of the counter before settling himself on the chaise longue with a groan, placing a hand on his chest and making sure Anathema sees. “I’m hurt, Ana. Why do you always think I did something whenever I ask if you’re busy?”

“Wrong, AJ,” Anathema says, as she opens the box and selects a matcha–flavoured macaron. “I only assume you do something stupid when you let me have the first pick from the box. So, what is it?”

“Smart choice. That one has moringa in it,” says Crowley, raising an eyebrow before he grabs at the chocolate macaron nearest to him.

Anathema glares at him, glarefully, as she shoves the rest of the macaron into her mouth in one bite. “Stop avoiding the question, Anthony James. What do you want?”

“It’s Jonah,” Crowley says, making a face, the deep red blush creating a splotchy mess of his freckles. “I was just wondering. If, _hypothetically,_ one were to propose, how would they go about it?”

Anathema muses upon the question with a hum, spinning an orange blossom macaron with a finger as she places her chin on her other hand. “And when would this _hypothetical_ proposal happen?”

“Ngk,” says Crowley, flinching.

“You haven’t thought about it,” Anathema says with a long–suffering sigh, casting her eyes heavenward.

“I don’t _know,”_ says Crowley, a touch defensively. “Maybe a month from now? So are you helping or not?”

“That depends,” says Anathema, fixing Crowley a gaze that makes him shift in his perch. “Have you told him yet?”

Crowley gets the sudden sense they’re no longer talking about his proposal. “Of course not,” he replies, instantly sobering up. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“You know he has to know, right?” Anathema says, exhaling aloud as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “Fine, I’ll help, but you have to tell him.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Crowley with a wry smile. “Now give me your ideas.”

“Alright,” Anathema says, making a show of clearing her throat. “So here’s what you’ll do…”

Crowley’s seasoning the latkes when Ezra enters blearily–eyed into the kitchen, pyjamas charmingly dishevelled and his curls sticking out in all directions like a veritable bird’s nest.

“Good morning,” Crowley says with a grin as he flips the batch currently frying on the stove upside down.

“G’morning,” mumbles Ezra in that husky, just–woken–up voice he has when he’s just finished an overnight shift, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he takes a seat on the kitchen table. “Why are you cooking latkes?”

“No reason,” says Crowley, innocently, as he inclines his head to point Ezra’s attention to the plate with the batch already done.

Ezra squints at him suspiciously before he takes a piece with his bare hand, smoothing down a healthy serving of applesauce onto it with a spoon. “Cinnamon sugar?” he asks through a mouthful. “When did you spring for this?”

“Yesterday while you’re in overtime,” Crowley says, licking at his blistered finger as he turns off the stove. “D’you like it?”

“Tastes suspiciously like my grandmother’s recipe,” says Ezra in the middle of another piece.

Crowley shrugs as he looks at Ezra, both hands on his chin and his elbows on the countertop. _“Might_ have gone through your books,” he says, grinning. “Are you free tonight?”

_“Ah,_ there’s the favour,” says Ezra, eyebrow quirked as he dabs the schmaltz off his lips with a napkin. “What is it, Mr Crowley?”

“Nothing, I just—” _Come on, Crowley. Don’t fuck this up._ “You wanna go to the park? I heard there’s an open–air concert at the bandstand tonight.”

Ezra hums, not thoroughly convinced.

“What?” says Crowley, frowning as he flashes Ezra his best puppy–dog eyes expression. “Is it so wrong to ask my partner out on a date?”

Ezra smiles back, more exasperated than indulgent. Should’ve known the puppy–dog eyes wouldn’t work on him anymore. “Rather sudden, don’t you think?”

“What can I say? I’m a man of many impulses,” says Crowley, who stands up straight as he places both hands on his hips, sauntering over to sit in the chair across from Ezra’s. “So, eight o’clock, Christchurch Towers?”

“Eight o’clock,” Ezra affirms, leaning over to leave a kiss on Crowley’s cheek. “Speaking of which, I have to go get dressed. Thanks for the breakfast, dear.”

“Any time, angel,” says Crowley, who almost melts into his chair.

Crowley’s parked the car in front of Christchurch Towers at exactly a quarter to eight, dressed to the nines in his best dress shirt and vest, his snakeskin boots polished until it reflected the light of the streetlamp he’s standing beneath. He’d even sprung for the expensive pomade he hadn’t used since uni, brushing it through his hair until it shone like burnished copper, then styled into waves that fell around his shoulders. The ring box sits secure in his coat pocket, pressed to his chest near his hammering heart.

_Although,_ Crowley thinks as he checks the time on his watch again while tapping his foot on the pavement, _if Gabriel keeps Ezra in the office any longer, this might all just go to waste._

Eight quarter, and Crowley has his back leaning on the lamp pole, occasionally looking up at the revolving door entrance, until Ezra finally appears, running up to him with an exhausted look in his face.

“Sorry I’m late,” says Ezra with a very put–upon smile. “Sandalphon was being overbearing in the sales meeting again.”

“‘S alright,” Crowley replies, who can’t help but breathe a quiet sigh of relief. “You’re here now, that’s what’s important.”

Ezra pouts, before he licks a finger and reaches up to tuck away a stray lock of Crowley’s hair. “Why do you never come up? I’ve wanted to introduce you to my co–workers for the longest time now.”

“Oh, that’s not— It’s not really my place, you know? Erm,” says Crowley, scuffing his shoe against the asphalt. “Shall we then?” he adds when he remembers himself, offering an arm out to Ezra.

“Always a pleasure,” Ezra says, placing a hand on the back of Crowley’s elbow. “Are we having dinner first?”

“Nope,” says Crowley as he opens the door to the passenger side and ushers Ezra in. “Check the backseat.”

Crowley smiles to himself as he walks across the car’s hood to enter the driver’s side, chuckling when he hears Ezra gasp, knowing that he’d already spotted the picnic basket with its tartan cloth cover strapped securely to the backseat along with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

“You didn’t,” says Ezra, gaping at Crowley like a fish out of water.

“I did,” Crowley says, shrugging, before clearing his throat and turning the key. “Just thought it would be nice to have a picnic while listening to the string quartet. You think so too, right?”

“Yes, of _course, _I think so. It’s just that—” Ezra hesitates as he picks at the lint on his cuffs. “Did you go to work today?”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Crowley, sneaking a forehead kiss as he swerves around the intersection. “Anathema covered for my shift today, anyway. Plus, there aren’t really many customers around this time of the month.”

Ezra hums, before leaning into his chair as Crowley steps on the gas with a screech. _“Anthony!”_

_“Sorry, angel!”_

Crowley leads them to a secluded spot in the park with a nice view of the Thames, close enough to the bandstand that they could still clearly hear the string quartet and yet hidden enough that they could have some semblance of privacy, the walk leaving him winded as he leads Ezra along by the hand.

They lay the tartan blanket down in the cool, dewy grass, and the basket emptied of its contents, consisting of a casserole of _cacio e pepe_ pasta, a box of praline millefeuilles and chocolate éclairs, two champagne glasses, paper plates, and some utensils.

“You made all this?” asks Ezra as Crowley hands him the plates, scrunching up his face with a look of disbelief.

“Not the desserts,” says Crowley, as he smooths down his coat. “But yes.”

Ezra removes the casserole lid, inhaling the savoury scent of the still–warm pasta. “I thought you said you didn’t cook?”

“I do _now.”_ Crowley grins as he twirls the serving fork around and places a hefty serving onto Ezra’s plate. “So, what do you think?”

Ezra hums as he takes a bite, letting the taste linger in his mouth before finally, he says “Not bad for your first try.”

_“Really?_ Spent the entire afternoon cooking for him and he says _‘not bad?’_” Crowley gasps, placing a hand to his chest to calm his racing heart down and surreptitiously check if the ring’s still in his pocket. “You wound me, Ezra.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, dear. It _is_ good,” says Ezra, midway through another bite, specks of grated parmesan clinging to the corners of lips. “I just think mine’s still a better recipe.”

“I hate you,” mutters Crowley with an exaggerated pout.

“No, you don’t,” Ezra says back, pushing Crowley’s face away with a laugh.

Crowley smiles back, reaching over to wipe the bits of food off Ezra’s lips. “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t.”

The pasta’s gone just in time for the string quartet, and Crowley pours both of them a flute each of the champagne as the band plays an arrangement of _Le Cygne._ He’s never really played this piece before; Russian ballet ruined the melody for him. Ezra, for his part, seems pleased with it, conducting the air as he sways his head with the rhythm, eyes closed.

Crowley’s distracted, constantly stretching his neck out to observe the night sky. Hopefully, the light pollution wouldn’t be too much tonight.

Any minute now.

_There._

“Ezra,” Crowley says, tapping lightly at Ezra’s shoulder, making him open his eyes. “Look up there.”

Ezra frowns momentarily at him, before he looks up at what Crowley’s pointing out, and his eyes widen in awe. “A meteor shower?”

“Eta Aquariids, yes,” says Crowley, tracking the meteor stream with his own eyes. “They’re at their peak tonight, wanted to show you.”

“Is the concert just a pretext, then?” Ezra asks, unable to take his eyes off the spectacle. _“Oh,_ they’re beautiful.”

The string quartet switches gears, playing _Liebesfreud,_ and Crowley remembers what he’d set out to do tonight. How appropriate that they’d play that song now, when he’d played its companion piece to Ezra not too long ago.

Ezra’s still distracted by the meteor shower to pay attention to anything else, and Crowley chooses this moment to take the box out of his pocket, hands shaking as he pries the lid open.

The ring glints teasingly in his eyes, two delicate angel wing filigrees in platinum, and in between them, a heart–shaped iridescent moonstone cabochon.

“Ezra,” Crowley says, simply.

“What is it, de— _Oh.”_

“Well?” asks Crowley, deeply aware of the nervous churning of his stomach.

Ezra’s eyes dart between Crowley’s queasy smile and the ring in its velvet box, and Crowley’s heart misses a beat. For a moment, he allows himself to dwell on the idea that Ezra _might_ say no, only to push it back away again.

“I— _No!_ I couldn’t possibly—”

Crowley’s face falls, and he has to concentrate, resisting the urge to place a hand against a heart threatening to leap out of his chest. “You don’t want to?” he asks, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

_“No,_ that’s not what I meant!” Ezra says, his voice climbing up a pitch as his arms continue to gesture about wildly. “It’s just— Are you _sure_ you want to marry me?”

“Are you kidding?” Crowley asks, suddenly incredulous. “We’ve lived in the same flat for almost a year, and known each other for four years before that. Ezra Fell, I have never been surer of anything in my life other than you.”

“Oh, I—” Ezra’s arms stay still at his sides for the first time. “Euh.”

“It’s alright,” says Crowley, already moving to close the box again. “You don’t have to answer right away. I can wait.”

_“No!”_ screeches Ezra, clasping both of Crowley’s hands between his, as he looks at Crowley with abject fondness. “I mean, yes. _Yes,_ I _will_ marry you.”

It was now Crowley’s turn to have his eyes widen. _“Really?”_ he asks, almost breathlessly.

Ezra nods, smiling widely. “Really.”

The burst of falling stars continue on in the background, their silhouettes illuminated by the glow of the waning moon, as the string quartet continues to play on, this time with a piece from Berlioz’ _Romeo et Juliette._

Crowley opens the box again, trembling as he slips the ring onto Ezra’s finger. A perfect fit. “Thank you,” he says, unable to take his eyes off Ezra.

“No, thank _you,”_ says Ezra, who leans in for a sudden kiss.

Crowley, surprised, forgets to breathe entirely as he kisses Ezra back.


	12. Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the tags. Read them again. Read them already? Good. Now, decide if this chapter is good for you or a) pretend the last chapter was the ending or b) come back in 4-5 chapters after most of the drama has passed.

Anthony J. Crowley is decidedly not having a good day.

It started bad enough, when he overslept and completely missed out on Ezra leaving for work this morning, so Crowley wasn’t able to sneak his usual dose of sleepy morning kisses. Then, when he arrived at the shop, Anathema had immediately banished him to the backroom just because he looked a little pale, so he didn’t have an opportunity to tell her how the proposal went either. Completely uncalled for, too; it’s not as if he’s going to faint on her again.

At least now she’s the only one who has to deal with annoying customers. One less trigger for the migraines he’s been having recently. Small blessings. If only Agnes didn’t just suddenly retire on the both of them.

“For the last time, _sir_,” Anathema says from the register, her voice reverberating through the thick walls of the backroom. From the exasperated sigh that follows, Crowley assumes that she’s already pulled her glasses off in frustration. “The arrangement you’re asking _won’t_ work. Half the flowers you’re asking for aren’t even in season yet.”

“Can’t you just…” the customer replies, and Crowley can almost imagine his face, smug and overbearing and patronizing all at once. Or maybe he’s just thinking of someone else. “I don’t know, do something about it?”

“Like what, make the flowers bloom out of season?” Anathema snaps back, a slight hiss in her consonants slipping in. “We’re not witches, sir, and not even God can do that.”

“Alright, that’s enough, this is killing me,” Crowley declares to no one in particular, as he momentarily takes his glasses off to rub two fingers on his eyes and sparing a look at his watch before getting up from his chair, hissing at the complaint launched by his spine in response to the movement.

Crowley steps out just as the door creaks open, only to be greeted by Anathema looking at him with a very put upon expression.

“What’s up, guys?” Crowley casually asks from the door frame.

“He’s insisting on an impossible order,” Anathema sighs as Crowley saunters over to the register beside her.

“Hand me that order slip,” Crowley says, holding out his hand, and reads out the sheet of paper as soon as Anathema places it on his hand. “_Winter _aconite? In _this _season? You’re out of your mind, my guy.”

“I— I want to speak with the manager!” the customer sputters, face reddening like he’s just blown off a gasket.

Crowley lowers his glasses, glaring at the customer as he sizes him up. One of those entitled bougie types, then, the ones who think the world will just conform to whatever they wish it to be just because they have money. A pity, really, that Crowley knows exactly how to deal with people like him. In fact, he’d grown up with people just like him.

“Unfortunately for you, I _am _the manager,” Crowley says, enunciating each syllable with as much posh as he can possibly put in. “_And_ the owner,” he adds when the customer starts to blubber like a fish. “Now, _leave my shop.”_

The customer sputters once more as he snatches the order slip from Crowley’s hand, and casts both him and Anathema a dirty look, muttering about bad Yelp reviews before stomping out of the shop with a slam of the door.

Crowley sighs, leaning forward onto the counter and burying his face in his hands as soon as the customer was outside. “Well, that was something.”

“You okay, AJ?” Anathema frowns as she places her glasses back on, touching the back of her hand to Crowley’s exposed forehead. “You’re ice cold.”

“Hm, yeah?” Crowley says, refusing to move from his current position. “‘M just tired.”

“Should I call Ezra?” she asks. “Tell him to pick you up?”

Crowley peeks at her from behind his hands, groaning again at the brightness of the room. _“Don’t._ He’s in a meeting right now, Gabriel will just be a prick to him if you do. I’ll be fine.”

Anathema hums thoughtfully, giving him a once–over. “At least go home. I’ll close up shop.”

“It’s barely two in the afternoon,” Crowley protests, slowly raising his head to look at her, hissing under his breath at the sudden nausea it brings.

“Do you really want to deal with customers after _that?”_ Anathema asks, laughing at Crowley’s glare of a response. “Thought so. Go home, get some rest, spoon with Ezra or whatever it is you do, and _no, I don’t actually want to know what it is you do.”_

“Are you sure? It’s all quite steamy,” Crowley asks with a foxy grin, propping his head up with both hands as Anathema slaps at his arm. _“Fine,_ I’ll go home. Don’t let the shop burn down while I’m gone.”

“Text me as soon as you do,” says Anathema, knitting her eyebrows together as she follows Crowley’s deliberate footsteps with her eyes.

“Aw, AJ,” Crowley says, inclining his head to one side, clutching at his chest with a dramatic gasp. “You’re actually worried about me?”

Anathema flings a gardening glove at his direction, scowling. _“No_, I’m asking you to text me so I know you didn’t faint at the wheel and crash your poor car.”

“Hey, Ana?” says Crowley, turning back to look at Anathema before he steps out of the shop.

“Yeah?” Anathema says, peering up from behind her glasses, her hands on the register’s lock.

“Thanks,” Crowley says with a sheepish smile. “For, erm… For today, I mean.”

“Oh, shut up,” mutters Anathema, glaring at him. “You sound weird when you talk like that. Just go home.”

“Right,” Crowley says, taking a sudden interest in his shoes. “See you tomorrow then.”

“I _better,”_ replies Anathema, smiling an exasperated smile. “See you, AJ.”

Ezra unlatches the lock on their flat’s door, his keys jangling about in his trouser pocket along with the acrylic angel wing keychain Crowley had jokingly bought for him on his last birthday. What giddiness he had leftover from last night is now sapped away, no thanks to Gabriel’s snappiness earlier.

He steps inside, quiet as a mouse, using only his phone’s camera flash as a torch as he walks around; the sun’s barely set, but Crowley’s been going to bed early these days, so Ezra would rather not disturb him. But instead, he finds Crowley curled up on their sofa, restless in his attempts to find a comfortable position to lie in.

“‘Zra? ‘Sat you?” Crowley mumbles with a slight lisp, raising his head from where it’s been tucked in between the crook of his elbow. “You’re home early.”

“Dear, it’s almost nine o’clock,” Ezra replies, who tuts with a fond smile as he approaches, eventually sitting in the space next to Crowley’s head.

“‘S it?” Crowley asks, adjusting himself so that his head could reach Ezra’s lap and use it as a pillow. “Anathema called you, didn’t she?”

Ezra hums thoughtfully, carding his fingers through Crowley’s hair sticking to a forehead slick with sweat. “Was she supposed to? I could’ve gone home sooner, if I knew.”

“‘M fine, just tired,” Crowley says with a deep sigh, closing his eyes for a moment as he relaxes into Ezra’s touch.

Ezra doesn’t buy it for a moment. “Bed, dear?” he asks, frowning.

“You’re much more comfortable,” Crowley says, blinking slowly as he snuggles closer to Ezra. “Let’s just watch something.”

“Shakespeare?” Ezra asks with a quirk of an eyebrow as Crowley wraps his arms around his midsection while he reaches for the telly’s remote control. “No Hamlet,” he promises.

“A man after my own heart,” Crowley chuckles breathlessly into Ezra’s stomach. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

“Getting yourself soaked in the rain,” Ezra says dryly, as he selects Baz Luhrmann’s _Romeo + Juliet_ from the smart tv’s list and hits the play button.

_“Really?”_ Crowley asks incredulously, turning around to face the screen as soon as he hears the first line.

“It’s a nice movie. And it’s accurate to the original, despite the setting,” Ezra offers as a defence. “And it’s sweet, if only —”

“—If you stop watching after their wedding. Yeah, yeah, I know,” Crowley finishes, who’s heard this all before and would rather just get on to watching.

They watch the film anyway; and despite Crowley’s previous grumbling, he laughs through the campiness of the first scenes, sharing a fond look with Ezra when the whirlwind courtship of Romeo and Juliet comes alive onscreen, remembering how it felt for them during their own complicated courtship.

When the end credits roll, Ezra realises that Crowley’s already fallen fast asleep with a smile on his lips, but the crease on his eyebrows still there as he takes quick, short breaths. Ezra smooths the creases away and smiles, leaning onto the sofa’s backrest to sleep himself.

Ezra wakes up to the incessant ringing of a phone. Crowley’s phone, to be exact, but it takes Ezra a moment to figure that out; the ringtone’s unfamiliar. He’s about to ignore it and let Crowley continue sleeping, but as soon as one call ends, another immediately follows, so Ezra rotates his head from side to side to rid himself of the kinks in his neck, before tapping gently on Crowley’s shoulder.

“What is it?” Crowley mumbles sleepily, keeping his eyes shut.

“Your phone’s ringing,” Ezra says as he bends down to kiss Crowley’s clammy forehead. “Where is it?”

“I got it,” Crowley says, hissing as he tries to push himself up to a sitting position. “Sorry. Little help, angel?”

Ezra holds Crowley by the shoulders as he attempts to push himself up again. Crowley smiles back at him half–heartedly, resting his head on Ezra’s shoulder as he fishes for his phone from his pocket and puts it to his ear.

“Yeah, Lu?” Crowley says into the receiver. “Bit late for a social call.”

Ezra adjusts his position, attempting to go back back to sleep and leave Crowley to his phone call, when Crowley hisses.

“Don’t call me _that,”_ Crowley says with a scowl, before he suddenly stiffens, sitting up straight as he breathes out a sharp _“What?”_

Ezra moves to leave the room, getting the sense that this is a private conversation, but Crowley places his hand on his thigh, preventing him from leaving.

Crowley’s nails dig into Ezra’s skin, his face getting paler by the minute as he listens to whoever is on the other end of the line, until finally he says, “No, I’m _fine_, stop fretting. I’ll go.”

“Crowley?” Ezra asks, his eyebrows furrowing as he looks at Crowley with concern.

“Sorry, Angel,” Crowley says, his eyes shining as he takes a deep breath. “I gotta go, it’s urgent.”

“What was that about?”

Crowley shakes his head, who realises that his hand’s still on Ezra’s thigh and promptly removes it. “I’ll— I’ll explain everything later. I really need to go.”

“At least let me come along with you,” says Ezra, sitting up straight and tugging at the wrinkles on his shirt. There’s no time to change, not when Crowley looks like he’d be running off the moment Ezra takes his eyes off him. “It’s late, you shouldn’t be driving alone.”

It worries Ezra, too, the pale skin and the eyebrows constantly creased in pain nowadays, but he doesn’t mention it.

“Angel, I—” Crowley replies, sighing when he sees the look on Ezra’s face. “Alright, but… I promise, I’ll explain everything, whatever happens.”

“It can’t be that bad, can it?” Ezra says, attempting a reassuring smile.

Crowley sighs again, shaking his head as he mutters under his breath words that might have sounded like “You have no idea.”

The drive’s uncharacteristically silent. No lighthearted banter nor a single word on where they’re going, just the roar of the engine running above the speed limit as unfamiliar landmarks blur past each other from the window, punctuated by the occasional deep sigh from Crowley, who keeps placing a hand on his chest when he thinks Ezra isn’t looking. 

The car finally screeches to a halt in front of the emergency area of a hospital, and before Ezra could protest at the definitely illegal parking, Crowley has already stepped out of the Bentley, breaking into a sprint.

“Where is— Where is she?” Crowley says, leaning on his knees to catch his breath, several steps in front of a taller, dark–haired man smoking near the entrance who would’ve been well–dressed had it not for the fact that his clothes are all wrinkled and his expression betrays the fact that he has not slept a wink. “Lu, where is she? Where’s our sister?”

_Their sister?_

Oh, Ezra can see the resemblance now, the same strong jaw and high cheekbones, and the same arrogant way they carry themselves. But, hadn’t Crowley told him before that he’d already cut off contact with his family?

The man _(Crowley called him Lu, didn’t he?)_, sighs as he takes the cigarette from his lips and grounds it against the concrete with his heel. “She’s fine. They’ve transferred her to a private room already.” He closes the remaining steps between them and pulls Crowley back up to a standing position as he says “Calm down. Are you sure you want to be here?”

“Yeah,” Crowley replies, wincing and still out of breath as he nods. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Ezra chooses this moment to step out of the car. Both brothers turn their attention to him at the same time, Crowley blinking as if he’d just remembered Ezra was in the car with him all this time.

“And who’s this?” Lu asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, er,” Crowley says, clearing his throat. “Ezra. Ezra Fell. My fiancé,” he adds, a blush on his cheeks.

_“Fiancé?”_ Lu echoes with a curious expression. “Little brother, when were you going to tell me? Lucifer,” he says, extending a hand to Ezra.

_“Lucifer?”_ Ezra blurts out, just as he shakes Lucifer’s hand.

Crowley laughs breathlessly. “That’s not his real name, it’s just how we call him.”

“Oh, does he know?” Lucifer says, turning to Crowley.

Ezra raises an eyebrow. “Know what?”

“It’s nothing,” Crowley replies, nudging his brother in the ribs. “I need to see her, Lu,” he says, turning to his brother with an imploring look.

_“They’re _in there. You really want this to happen?” says Lucifer, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“I _don’t _care,” Crowley repeats stubbornly. “She’s still my sister.”

Lucifer sighs again, running a hand through his hair. “Come on.”

Crowley follows behind his brother as he enters the building, and Ezra spares a look at the Bentley before going in after them.

_What are you hiding, Crowley?_

Lucifer leads them to a hallway deep within the first floor, the clacking of his heels abruptly stopping as they reach a bench located between two doors in the seemingly endless corridor of the private patient ward.

“Why’d we stop?” Crowley asks with a shaky breath.

Lucifer tenses up. “It’s—”

“Lu? Who’s that with you?” someone asks, and from the shadows steps out a woman in a fleece turtleneck sweater and pencil skirt, an expensive–looking rosary looped around her hand. A steaming cup of vending machine coffee is clasped between her hands, as she looks at Crowley and Ezra, searching for something. Ezra thinks she looks familiar, somehow, but he can’t place where he’s seen her before.

“Hey,” Crowley says, his expression unreadable. “Mika.”

_“Raph?”_ the woman breathes out as the cup slips from her now–trembling hands, coffee spilling all over the floor and splattering drops onto her white skirt. “But— you’re not here. You _can’t_ be here. _You’re not real, you’re dead.”_

_Raph?_ Ezra repeats in his mind as he watches the scene unfold. _What?_

“It’s me, Mika,” Crowley says, smiling thin–lipped. “I’m here.”

Lucifer swears at the exact same time, rushing past and offering his help. Instead, he is met with a backhanded slap on the cheek, hard enough that the air around them starts to ring.

_“You knew,”_ the woman, Mika, says, staring at Lucifer. “All this time, you knew our brother’s alive and you didn’t tell _me?”_

“Michael, I—” Lucifer starts.

“It’s not his fault, Mika. I asked him to,” Crowley cuts in, slumping his shoulders.

_“You don’t get to call me that,”_ Michael hisses as she stalks towards Crowley. _“Ten years._ We all thought you were _dead._”

“Fine, _Michael._ It’s not _my _fault _you_ took that note badly,” Crowley says, his hands shaking as he curls them up into fists at his sides.

Michael raises her hand, poised to strike, but at the last minute she leaves it hanging in mid–air then yanks it back to her side. “It was a suicide note and you know it, _Raphael,”_ she says, in a low voice that barely conceals her fury.

Ezra turns to Crowley, standing stiffly beside him with an expression that betrays the fact that the words have found their mark. Ezra opens his mouth, intending to ask for an explanation, when the door to one of the rooms opens.

“Could you two keep your argument down _for once?_ What did Lucifer do this time, anyway?”

It’s Gabriel. Why is his boss here?

And then suddenly, it all clicks into place. A dead brother. Ten years ago, news reports filled to the brim with the nationwide search for a young man full of promise, seemingly vanished into thin air. Where Ezra’s seen Michael before, Crowley’s stark refusals to attend any corporate functions with him, his constant inattention to Ezra’s ranting about his boss. _The photograph._

_He lied,_ Ezra thinks, as he backs away slowly, from Crowley, _from Raphael Christchurch_, whatever he’s calling himself. The man Ezra thought he knew.

Gabriel catches sight of them, narrowing his eyes as he says “Why is Ezra Fell here?”

“Why don’t you ask our brother?” Michael says, still glaring at her brothers.

“Lu?” Gabriel says, as he turns to the wrong brother.

“Not him, Gabe. _Me,”_ Crowley — _Raphael_ — says, refusing to make eye contact.

_“What—”_ Gabriel says, as his eyes widen in recognition.

Gabriel surges forward, hitting his brother square in the jaw with his fist and setting his shades fly off into the air, before turning to Ezra with murder in his eyes.

“Leave him out of this, Gabe,” Crowley says, touching a hand to his jaw and rubbing a thumb at the point of impact. “He doesn’t know.”

_“It’s Gabriel,”_ he says with a heaving breath. “I _mourned_ you. _Ten years, _Raphael. Why are you here _now?”_

“Uri. What happened to her?” Crowley says, his breaths coming in quick as his voice hitches. “Let me see her.”

_“Uriel_ is none of your business,” Gabriel sneers, turning away on his heel. “Not anymore.”

A tear falls onto Crowley’s cheek, cascading down to his swollen jaw. _“Please._ I’ll leave, just— just let me see her once. I— I wasn’t there before, let me be here now.”

_“Why?”_ Gabriel demands. “What makes you _think_ she’ll even recognize you, if she wakes up? She was _seven_ when you left.”

Crowley takes another shaky breath as he bends down to pick up his glasses. “I see. Let’s just go, Ezra.”

Ezra refuses to take another step.

“Ezra?” Crowley repeats.

“No,” Ezra says. “I’m not coming with you.”

“What?” Crowley says in a small voice.

“I think you heard me,” Ezra replies.

Ezra walks away, back to where they came through, and behind him, he can hear footsteps following him.

“Ezra— Ezra, _please,”_ Crowley says, wheezing, as Ezra steps out with the opening of the automatic doors. “Let me explain.”

“Explain _what?”_ Ezra asks, turning swiftly on his heel to face him. “When were you going to tell me? Were you ever going to?”

“Ezra, I—”

Crowley looks like a kicked puppy, his eyebrows knit together as his lip wobbles with every intake of breath.

Ezra decides he doesn’t care anymore.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” he says simply.

“I didn’t change, angel. It’s still me. Anthony Crowley,” Crowley says as he cautiously steps forward to bridge the gap between them.

“Do _not_ call me that,” Ezra snaps, and Crowley recoils away as if slapped. “That’s not even your name, is it? _Raphael Christchurch._ Was everything else a lie too?”

“No. _No,_ I— I love you.”

Ezra tugs the ring off his finger, its cold metal surface burning his skin and weighing him down. He grabs his fiancé’s hand, and places the ring on his palm, forcing Crowley’s fingers to curl around it despite his protests.

“Goodbye, Crowley,” Ezra says, turning away without a second glance, leaving Crowley standing there just as a spring shower starts pouring down.

He tries to pretend not to hear an anguished scream, letting the rain soak his face as he waits for a cab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, this actually _was_ the first chapter we finished. Everything was building up to this moment. Don’t worry, we’re going to fix this.
> 
> Maybe.
> 
> And now that you know, [here’s a server link](https://discord.gg/HwK2g4R).


	13. Nightshade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the tags. Read them again. Read them already? Good. Now, decide if this chapter is good for you or a) pretend the proposal chapter was the ending or b) come back in 4-5 chapters after most of the drama has passed.

Lucifer wakes to his phone frantically vibrating itself off his nightstand, and he flips over on his bed, muttering under his breath about the audacity of people who didn’t have adolescent children to take care of, as he stretches out an arm from within the warm cocoon of the covers to pick up the offending phone and drop the call.

He squints at the brightness of the phone screen, thumb hovering above the call reject button, when he notices the caller ID. _Gabriel,_ it says, but why would he be calling right now? Gabriel _never_ calls, at least certainly not this late at night, unless…

But no, that can’t be it. Most likely, Gabriel’s just calling to remind him to go back to the manor tomorrow and attend the memorial service along with the rest of them. Like that could still fool anyone, when everyone already knows just how fucked up their family is. _God,_ he could strangle Raph for causing this mess by playing dead in the first place.

_“What,”_ Lucifer says as he answers the call, letting his voice carry his annoyance at being so rudely awoken at an ungodly hour.

At the other end of the line, Gabriel clears his throat. “Lu,” Gabriel says, in a tone that makes it almost sound like he’s pleading and ignites a spark of bitter recollection within Lucifer. “It’s— It’s Uriel.”

Lucifer bolts up into a sitting position, his blood running cold as he forces a suppressed memory back down with a single deep breath before it could bubble up to the surface. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s something bad,” Gabriel replies, his voice breaking. “I— She’s been _mugged,_ Lu!”

Lucifer clenches his jaw shut, his teeth biting at the inside of his cheek and drawing blood. “Calm down, Gabriel,” he says finally; Gabe in the beginnings of a panic attack was one of the things Lucifer had hoped he’d never have to hear again. “Deep breaths. Tell me what’s happened.”

“I don’t— I don’t know. They just told me she’s in surgery right now,” Gabriel says with a shuddering breath. “Lu, what if she’s—”

“She’s not,” says Lucifer, already untangling himself from the covers and getting out of bed. “She’s going to get through this.”

“But what _if—”_

“She’s not Raph, Gabriel,” Lucifer says, addressing what he knows must be racing through their youngest brother’s mind right now. “She’s not going to die. Who else knows? Where is she now?”

“I can’t contact Mum, I think she’s still in–flight. I— Mika already knows, said I should call you,” replies Gabriel, his voice still shaking. “I’m on my way to Addenbrooke’s.”

_Shit,_ no wonder Gabriel’s panicking. “Gabriel Henry, are you driving while on a call?” he asks instead.

That startles a laugh out of Gabriel. “I’m using airpods, _big brother._ Just— Come quick. _Please._”

“I will,” says Lucifer, slipping on a dressing gown as he holds the phone to his ear with his shoulder. “Take care, little brother.”

And then he realises, just as Gabriel ends the call, how the _fuck_ is he going to tell Adam?

Lucifer pinches at the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginnings of a migraine as he exhales slowly through his mouth.

It’s going to be a long night.

“Adam,” Lucifer says ten minutes later, sitting at the edge of Adam’s bed and wearing yesterday’s hastily steamed clothes. “Hey. Wake up, kid.”

Adam tentatively opens an eyelid, before closing it shut again as he pulls the blankets over his head. “What is it?” Adam mumbles sleepily, the moving lump under the covers telling Lucifer that he’s shifted on the bed.

“Have to drop you off at your mum’s tonight,” says Lucifer, patting his head at the top of Adam’s head still poking out from the covers.

“What?” Adam says with a yawn, throwing off the covers to stare at Lucifer with his deliberately innocent baby blue eyes. “But I just got here.”

Lucifer runs a hand through his hair, exhaling loudly. “I know, Adam, but I just really have to be somewhere else tonight. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“You always say that,” Adam pouts as he mutters under his breath, and oh god, he’s right, maybe Lucifer _is _turning into his parents.

And then Adam blinks, creasing his brows together as he casts Lucifer a worried look. “Dad? Is something wrong?”

Lucifer worries at his bottom lip, mulling the question over. Should he tell Adam? He’s almost about the same age as Gabe was when—

_Oh._

Lucifer swears under his breath, before he cups Adam’s face in his hand and holds his gaze. No more dilly–dallying this time. “It’s your Aunt Uri,” he sighs, rubbing his thumb across Adam’s cheek. “She’s in the hospital right now, Uncle Gabe just called me.”

Adam pushes the rest of the blanket away as he sits up and leans against the headboard. “Is she okay?”

“I don’t know, hellspawn,” Lucifer admits, as he ruffles Adam’s hair in an attempt to retain some sense of normalcy. “Get dressed, alright? We need to leave.”

Fifteen minutes later, the Lexus is zooming along the A41, Adam’s strapped in the backseat and sleeping soundly curled up around Dog, when Lucifer decides he needs to make another call. God only knows what will happen if _he _finds out about this from the news.

It takes him ten tries, but his brother finally picks up.

“Yeah, Lu? Bit late for a social call,” his brother says, and Lucifer winces at how exhausted his voice sounds; he must’ve been sleeping while Lucifer was trying to call.

“Raph,” Lucifer says, his voice shaking as he realises how long it’s been since they’d last spoken to each other, and that now their first conversation will be about _this_.

“Don’t call me _that,”_ Raph — Crowley — snaps from the other end of the line.

“Sorry,” Lucifer says, taking a deep breath to steady himself before continuing. “Listen. It’s— It’s Uriel. Something’s happened. I’m on my way to the hospital.”

_“What?”_ Crowley says sharply, making Lucifer flinch as he places some distance between his ear and the receiver.

“Calm down, alright?” says Lucifer, taking a turn towards Kings Langley. It wouldn’t do any good if something else were to happen. “I don’t know how she’s doing right now, Gabriel’s just called me.”

“Where is she? I’ll go,” Crowley asks, whose heavy breathing remains audible even through the speaker’s static.

Lucifer creases his eyebrows. Maybe it wasn’t just exhaustion making his brother’s voice sound hoarse. “Are you well? You don’t sound like it.”

“Lucifer, I’m _fine,”_ replies Crowley, in the exact sort of way that makes Lucifer think he’s lying. “Tell me where she is.”

“Cambridge. Addenbrooke’s. You still remember the way?” Lucifer asks as he swerves to overtake the car in front of him.

“Still remember the— Of course, I still remember the bloody way,” Crowley snaps irritably, and Lucifer thinks he can hear faint wheezing as his brother adds “What kind of a question is that?”

“Are you _sure_ you’re fine? You don’t have to go,” Lucifer replies. “Besides, Michael and Gabriel are there. Do you _want_ them to know after ten years?”

“No, I’m _fine_, stop fretting. I’ll go,” Crowley snaps again, ending the call before Lucifer could say anything more.

Lucifer sighs, tossing his phone onto the passenger seat. The roundabout to Lower Tadfield’s in sight.

Deirdre’s already waiting by the driveway by the time Lucifer turns the Lexus’ engine off, wrapped up in a cotton dressing gown with her arms crossed on her chest.

“I haven’t called you yet,” says Lucifer, squinting suspiciously.

“You didn’t have to,” is Deirdre’s caustic reply. “I’m sure you’ve already woken up the entire neighbourhood, driving as if you’re in the bloody Euro Series. Didn’t you _just_ fetch Adam this morning?”

“See, about that…” Lucifer starts, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck as he turns to check if Adam’s still asleep.

Adam’s buried his face on Dog’s fur, while the top part of his head is hidden by his hair. He had _better _still be sleeping.

“Come on, out with it,” says Deirdre, as she uncrosses her arms and makes a beckoning gesture with her hand. “What’s the excuse this time?”

Lucifer exhales through his mouth. “It’s Uriel. She’s been mugged. Please don’t tell Adam.”

_“What?”_ Deirdre says, staring incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“I wish I wasn’t,” Lucifer sighs, then gestures with his head towards the backseat. “Adam’s still asleep, don’t wake him up.”

“Of course. So you’re driving back to Cambs?”

Deirdre opens the car door, and Dog’s ears prick up, beady eyes looking about, as Deirdre unclasps the seatbelt and braces herself to carry Adam’s sleeping form.

“Yeah. D’you want me to carry him inside?” says Lucifer, already about to get up from the driver’s seat, while Dog jumps to the floor and wags his tail next Deirdre.

“I can still carry him,” Deirdre says, brushing him off as she places Adam’s head against one shoulder and slings his backpack over another. “I take it he won’t be spending weekends with you for a while, then?”

Lucifer winces. “Sorry.”

“Oh, you always say that,” says Deirdre in the exact same tone as her son. “Best leave, you’ve got a long drive ahead of you. Give my love to your siblings, won’t you?”

_Not to me?_ Lucifer almost asks, but no, that’s inappropriate, she’s already married. “I will. Don’t tell him, alright?”

“Of course not, I’ll leave that to you,” Deirdre says. “You take care of yourself.”

Lucifer nods, as he revs up the engine again. From the rearview mirror, he catches a glimpse of Deirdre still standing outside, carrying Adam still innocently sleeping in her arms. It’s a thoroughly ridiculous notion, but Lucifer hopes Adam remains this innocent, even for just a little while longer.

Lucifer spots a Corvette and a Porsche as he tries to find a spot in the parking lot. Looks like his siblings are already here then. Well, two of them. He wouldn’t know what kind of scene to expect had the Bentley been anywhere near here. At least this way Lucifer would have time to brace himself for the many different forms of the infamous Christchurch temper.

_God,_ this fucking family.

_Ground floor. Trauma unit,_ the receptionist in the lobby had told Lucifer.

What the hell happened?

Lucifer knocks at the door of the room he’s been directed to. Uriel’s name is written in black ink on the room’s nameplate, but no one replies from inside.

He twists the knob open anyway. Maybe his siblings are just filling up paperwork somewhere.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

Lucifer looks up, and immediately spots Michael sitting cross–legged on an uncomfortable wooden chair, holding Uriel’s hand, as Gabriel hovers restlessly at the other side of the hospital bed.

“Why wouldn’t I?” replies Lucifer, his head inclined quizzically as he looks at Michael. “She’s our sister.”

_“Really?_ After running off to LA?” Michael says, who answers him with a cutting glare.

Lucifer huffs as he shuts the door behind him. “Spare me the lecture, Michael. I—”

Lucifer had meant to roll his eyes, but instead, catches a glimpse of Uriel.

“She looks— She looks like Raph when—”

Gabriel makes a strangled noise, taking him a few heartbeats to recover his voice. _“Don’t,”_ Gabriel says, his voice unsteady. “Don’t you dare say it.”

Lucifer, dazed, could no longer stay standing, as he sinks into the nearby ottoman. “You didn’t tell me it was this bad,” he says, his face hidden behind his hands.

Gabriel’s breath hitches, but before he can say anything, Michael reaches across the bed and places her hand on top of their brother’s, shaking her head.

“He didn’t know either,” she says.

“I— But she’ll be alright, won’t she? She has to be.”

_Not again. Not another sibling he couldn’t protect._

Lucifer stands up, pacing around by the door, until finally, he unlocks it again.

“Where are you going?” Michael asks.

_“Out,”_ says Lucifer, refusing to look back as he slams the door behind him.

It starts out innocuous enough, with Lucifer stress smoking by the entrance as he hasn’t since Adam was born, trying to figure out how to tell their wayward middle brother that his favourite sibling is possibly dying.

He couldn’t say it, in the end, not with how happy Raph had looked when introducing his fiancé.

Ezra Fell. Lucifer hasn’t had time to get the measure of him. Unassuming, mousy, even, but something about him must have caught his brother’s eye, enough that Raph was finally able to get over long–buried fears.

And then, it all goes to hell.

All secrets have a way of eventually spilling out, and so seems does this one.

Caught in a storm he himself had a hand in creating, Lucifer could only watch as his siblings have a go at each other, not that he’s completely exempt from it, as his throbbing cheek so eagerly keeps on reminding him.

Gabriel turns to him, eyes flashing in anger, as Lucifer watches Raph chase after Ezra Fell, offering excuses he refuses to hear.

Lucifer starts, as he remains rooted in place. “Gabriel, I—”

“How could you?” Gabriel asks, glaring at him. “Why wouldn’t you tell us?”

_“He asked me to!”_ Lucifer says, voice trembling, biting his tongue once he’d realised he had raised his voice. “He asked me to, alright?”

Gabriel scoffs, his eyes turning into slits. “He was always your favourite, wasn’t he? Always more important than the rest of us.”

“You know that’s not true, Gabe.”

“Isn’t it?” says Gabriel. “I better not see you around Uriel again.”

Gabriel walks away, and Lucifer has half a mind to call out to him, but decides against it at the last minute. He’ll cool off, eventually. He always does.

“Well? What are you still waiting for?” Michael says, her back still turned to Lucifer. _“Leave_, Lucifer.”

Lucifer steps closer, eyebrows furrowed and feeling like a kicked puppy. “Michael—”

_“Leave,_ before I do something we’ll both regret,” Michael warns, just short of Lucifer touching her shoulder to make her face him.

_I’d _told _him this would happen,_ thinks Lucifer, hissing under his breath at the sting. “We need to talk, Michael.”

“Do we?” Michael says, turning swiftly on her heel. “Do we, Lucifer? What could possibly excuse you from hiding the fact that Raphael’s alive?”

“I—”

“You know what? Save it,” hisses Michael, her lips twisted up into a sneer, as she stalks past Lucifer and enters Uriel’s room, slamming the door behind her.

Lucifer finds his brother standing by the entrance, staring into space and shivering against the intense downpour. He runs up to him, hissing out a colourful string of words as he drapes his own jacket over Raph’s shoulders.

_“Fuck,_ Raph,” Lucifer says as he stares down at his brother, shielding his vision from the rain with both hands. “Do you really want to catch your death in this weather?”

“That’s not my name,” his brother mumbles, coughing weakly as he presses to his chest a hand curled into a fist. “Don’t call me that.”

It is then that Lucifer notices something else, that there is a conspicuously empty space beside his brother where someone else should be.

“Raph— _Crowley,”_ Lucifer says slowly as he mentally kicks himself. “Where’s Ezra?”

Crowley crumples into Lucifer’s arms with a sob, as Lucifer awkwardly wraps them around his brother, not knowing what else to do.

His brother calms down, somehow, as Lucifer drags them both out of the rain. The downpour has only gotten stronger in the time since, blurring the twinkling lights of the city outside into each other like smudged paint on a canvas.

Only, he’s too quiet, lagging behind Lucifer as they walk back to their sister’s room, listless and breathing heavily as snakeskin shoes skid across the tiles. The night has taken its toll on all of them.

Crowley stumbles as they turn around the corner, and Lucifer is quick on his feet to stop him from falling down face first onto the polished floor.

“You okay?” Lucifer asks, brows creasing in concern, as Crowley leans against his shoulder to prop himself upright. His phone buzzes within his breast pocket, but Lucifer pays it no mind.

“‘M fine,” Crowley says, exhaling shakily as he brushes Lucifer’s steadying hand off his wrist.

“Are you sure? We should at least—”

_“I said I’m fine, Samael,”_ Crowley bursts out, his breaths heaving with the effort. “Let’s just go see Uriel.”

“I’m sorry,” Lucifer says instead, still unable to shake off his worry.

_“Don’t,”_ Crowley replies, raising a hand. “This was my fault.”

Lucifer nods as he takes one look at Crowley’s listless expression as they resume walking, and decides that if anything happens to his brother tonight, he’d make sure that Ezra Fell would be consigned to the deepest pits of hell.

His brother is wheezing by the time they reach the wards, and Lucifer has half a mind to force him to go to the emergency department, but he lets it go, knowing that pressing the wrong buttons would just make Crowley more stubborn as it is. It can wait.

Perhaps Lucifer should have realised, the night isn’t over just yet.

They round another the corner, just in time to see a swarm of medical staff rushing to one of the rooms with equipment. Both their siblings are back out on the hallway, with Michael’s sitting on the floor, face hidden behind her hands as she leans against the wall, while Gabriel looks up as he hears their footsteps, wearing the same grief–stricken expression Lucifer’s already seen once before.

_It’s not just any room,_ Lucifer thinks, eyes widening as realisation dawns on him._ Their sister’s room._

_Fuck._

_He can’t see this,_ Lucifer thinks frantically as he turns back around to block Crowley’s view. He can’t stop the life he’d built for himself from crumbling around his brother any further, but Lucifer would be damned before he’d let Raph see their baby sister dying.

He is, as always, far too late.

Lucifer only manages to catch sight of Raph’s eyes widen in frozen terror before rolling back into his head, as his brother collapses to the floor without a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, you thought we were done with hurting Crowley last chapter?


	14. Zinnia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, we don't have to tell you to read the tags at this point, do we? That's probably already a given. Also part two of (approximately) three of what was originally only a single chapter.

_“Raph!”_ Lucifer yells, sprinting to catch his brother before his head hit the tiles. “Raph? Are you alright?”

_He’s fine. He _has_ to be fine, _thinks Lucifer, holding on to the thought like a mantra to steady his nerves.

Lucifer stumbles, his knees buckling under the awkward position and their combined weights (but his brother barely weighs anything at all in his arms, and Lucifer refuses to think about what it may mean), and he is forced to readjust, sitting on the floor as he supports Crowley’s head on his lap.

“Raphael?” Lucifer tries again, bile rising in his throat at the lack of response. “Crowley. Come on, wake up. Uriel’s going to be fine, I promise. Just— _please_, wake up.”

Lucifer continues to shake his brother’s shoulder, eyes widening as Crowley’s hand falls limply to the floor, and only then does Lucifer realise he cannot feel the steady rise and fall of his brother’s chest.

“Crowley. Crowley, _please,”_ Lucifer says, a little louder, as if he can startle his brother into taking another breath; but instead, it only manages to grab the attention of their other siblings. “Don’t do this.”

Lucifer’s sight blurs at the edges, memories rising up to the surface as he frantically tries to get his brother to wake up, but still Crowley remains motionless in his arms.

A high–pitched noise pierces through his thoughts, and from the corner of his eyes, he catches Michael staring, both hands covering her mouth and the panic in her eyes a mirror to his own.

Gabriel, too, is staring, almost as if he doesn’t know how to react, and Lucifer is hit with the realisation that they’d shielded their youngest brother from this the first time.

Not this time, though.

“Gabriel…” Lucifer croaks out, cradling their brother’s head on his lap. “Gabriel, get some help. _Please.”_

Gabriel, still staring wide–eyed, snaps to attention as Lucifer fails to suppress a sob, nodding slowly before leaving in a sprint.

It feels like an eternity before Gabriel returns. His brother towers over him, blocking out the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights, even though Lucifer knows for a fact that he’s a good two inches taller.

He feels someone pulling Raph away, and Lucifer instinctively tightens his grasp around his brother, as he looks up at the same time Gabriel kneels down beside him.

“Lu. Lucifer, _please,”_ Gabriel says, near tears himself. “Let them help.”

Lucifer shakes his head, feeling as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. “I can’t— I can’t lose any of you _again_.”

“I know, big brother,” Gabriel says, and Lucifer feels a light touch on his shoulder. “But you have to let them help.”

Lucifer nods slowly, maintaining eye contact with Gabriel as he releases his hold on Raph. He takes a shuddering breath, watching as they wheel away Raphael on a gurney. He is the eldest, he knows cannot break, not when he knows his siblings depend on him.

He still does, anyway.

His hands are shaking, Lucifer realises, leaning onto Gabriel to keep himself upright. They won’t stop shaking.

Something is shining on the floor directly below, snatching Lucifer’s attention. It’s a ring, intricately carved with spiralling whorls that look like angel wings, surrounding a moonstone in the centre. It’s what his brother must have been clutching to his broken heart up until…

Lucifer picks it up, placing it in his pocket as he shakes the thought out of his mind, sprinting after his brother despite Gabriel’s protests.

Lucifer keeps pacing, craning his neck at regular intervals, trying to see, needing to know; but the frosted glass doors remain closed to him and the staff tells him nothing.

He should have realised something was off. Didn’t he already notice his brother didn’t sound well even while they were on the phone? That he was far too pale and out of breath all evening? He should have insisted that Crowley get himself looked at immediately instead of foolishly thinking that it could wait.

Lucifer groans in frustration into his hands. This was all his fault.

And then his phone starts ringing, and Lucifer freezes into place.

Gabriel’s calling him again. Lucifer’s hands shake as he keeps a tenuous grip on his phone. His thumb hovers over the screen, but Lucifer continues to hesitate about taking the call. What if he’s lost Uriel as well? He barely knows his own sister. Why didn’t he take the time to get to know her better?

The ringing stops abruptly before he can decide, and Lucifer’s knees start to buckle when his phone starts beeping with messages instead.

_ Lucifer, answer your phone – Gabriel_

_Lu, please – Gabriel_

His phone starts ringing again after the second message, and Lucifer exhales with a shuddering breath, answering the call.

“Gabe?” Lucifer says, hating how broken his voice sounds even to his own ears.

“She’s fine, Lu,” Gabriel says, his voice shaking as well. “Uriel’s alright.”

Lucifer sinks into the cold metal bench then, breathing a sigh of relief as fresh tears begin flowing down his cheeks.

“How’s— How is Raph?” Gabriel says, choking on a sob.

“I don’t know. _God,_ I don’t know,” Lucifer replies, hitting his elbow on the bench’s armrest as he rubs his forehead with the fingers of his free hand. “Will you come here?”

“Sorry,” Gabriel whispers, soft enough that Lucifer almost misses it. “I can’t. Mika won’t stop crying, I can’t leave her or Uriel right now.”

“That’s—” Lucifer takes a shuddering breath. He didn’t even think of Michael. _His own twin._ “That’s alright, Gabe. Take care of our sisters, will you?”

He’s about to hang up when he hears Gabriel call his name again.

“Yeah, Gabe?” Lucifer says, leaning back against the wall.

“Tell me if anything changes,” Gabriel replies. “I’m sorry.”

Gabriel hangs up before Lucifer could say anything else, leaving Lucifer to deal with his thoughts by himself once again.

Lucifer taps his fingers impatiently against the metal bench, long since lost track of time since his brother collapsed, even as the clock ticks on continuously on the wall behind him, counting down the minutes and grating on his already raw nerves.

It can’t have been too long, Lucifer tells himself, grinding his teeth. He can’t afford to think of that, not now, not ever.

He can’t blink, even when his eyes are burning staring at the doors. Every time he does, the same scene plays itself over and over again, Raphael collapsing to the floor, the feeling of his brother motionless in his arms, the details of the past mingling in with the present.

But the doors still remain closed to him, and Lucifer huffs into his hands, tilting his head away to face the exit instead.

Lucifer’s only seen it this evening, but that was already enough for him, as he recognizes the blonde curls and the faded tweed coat, currently standing in the taxi bay and waiting out the rain as if nothing happened.

Lucifer’s vision turns red, as he stalks towards the doors, booming out _“You caused this.”_

Ezra Fell turns around to face him, looking for all the world innocently as he curtly asks “What?”

_“Do I have to spell it out?”_ Lucifer hisses, stopping just short of Ezra Fell becoming within arm’s reach, tantalizing as it may be to beat the living daylights out of him. “What did you _think_ was going to happen, abandoning him like that?”

“I don’t understand—” 

_“You killed my brother!”_ Lucifer yells, failing to keep the tide contained any longer. “You’ve killed him.”

“I don’t— He was fine when I— He was just a little ill,” Ezra Fell says, eyes widening as his voice rises in hysterics, to which Lucifer has no sympathy whatsoever.

_“A little?”_ Lucifer repeats incredulously. “You don’t know,” he realizes, just as Ezra Fell dissolves into tears. “He never told you.”

“Told me _what_ exactly?”

“Do you have _any_ idea how many times he’s almost died before?” Lucifer says, gesturing wildly to the wind. “How sick he’s been most of our lives? What kind of— What kind of fiancé doesn’t know these things?”

“Well, _forgive me_ for not knowing anything about my fiancé,” Ezra Fell snaps. “Until today I didn’t even know his name was Raphael Christchurch!”

“And yet you never wondered just why he gets winded so easily? Never questioned all those medications he takes?” Lucifer retorts. “Even if he never told you about anything, you should have noticed something. How could you not notice?”

Ezra Fell’s expression shifts then. “I need to see him,” he says, trying to push his way past Lucifer. “I’m his fiancé. He— he needs me.”

“But he’s _not_ your fiancé anymore, is he?” Lucifer asks in a low, deadly tone. “_You_ made sure of that.”

Lucifer turns away, leaving Ezra Fell to stew in his own guilt.

And then, he freezes on the spot, as he sees the doors open.

_They’ve stopped. Why have they stopped?_

Lucifer’s eyes track their way to the monitor, showing nothing but a flat, unbroken line.

_No._

Beside him, Lucifer hears a gasp, as he hears Ezra Fell brokenly call out _“Crowley.”_

It snaps Lucifer out of his thoughts, and he is about to open his mouth to unleash another verbal beating, but before Lucifer could fully tear his eyes away from the nightmare unfolding before them, something else happens.

A spike appears, disrupting the line. And then another, until slowly but surely, a steady beat returns.

Lucifer’s eyes tear up in relief, and he rushes back inside as doctors swarm his brother once again, every other thought forgotten.

They let Lucifer in a few minutes later, and he immediately sits beside his brother, taking Raphael’s hand in his own.

_He doesn’t look at peace,_ is the first thing Lucifer notices. Unconscious like this, Raphael’s face finally betrays the bone–weary exhaustion he’s always concealed behind the well–practiced swagger. How is his brother going to bounce back this time?

The curtains shift, revealing Ezra Fell standing by right outside, looking very much like a child forbidden to touch.

Lucifer’s expression hardens as he says _“Leave.”_

“But I—”

_“Leave, or I shall have you dragged from here,”_ Lucifer repeats, letting his threat hang thick in the air.

Ezra Fell’s face falls, and with a last, longing gaze at Raphael, he turns and leaves.

Lucifer hopes for the sake of his brother’s broken heart that Ezra Fell never returns, as shaking fingers card through Raphael’s hair, and, in the loneliness of the emergency room, he is allowed to weep at last.


	15. Sainfoin

Ezra is slowly slipping to the floor, face hidden behind his hands as he screams. The door’s shut behind him, keeping him away from the prying eyes of their neighbours, not that it matters. They’ll all find out sooner or later.

Stupid. So, _so_ stupid. He should’ve known it was too good to be true, that there was a catch to everything.

Ezra feels another scream rising sharply in his chest, but it dies when it reaches his throat, transforming into a sob, one after another, as if a dam has broken inside of him and letting all his emotions through, until his throat is raw and there are no more tears left to shed.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there when he finally looks up, hitting his head against the mahogany door as he straightens himself out. The spot on the wall where the old paint peeks out is still there; they never did get to repaint it.

Ezra heaves himself up, his joints groaning under him. He needs to pack. He can’t stay here. He _shouldn’t_ stay here.

Ezra heads to the bedroom first. It’s a mess. Bedsheets thrown off in all directions, last night’s clothing sprawled all over the floor. _He’d_ never been one to keep after himself, like a snake shedding its skin and slithering away from it.

And now he knows why, Ezra thinks, as he gingerly picks up a pair of pyjamas and tosses them into the laundry basket without a second glance. Must have grown up with people cleaning up after him, with how rich his family is.

Ezra sighs, sitting at the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. Where to even start with any of this?

He drags his suitcase out of the cabinet and drops it on the floor. He hasn’t really thought about how much taller Crow — Raph — _he_ was than Ezra until Ezra needed a footstool to grab the suitcase from the top shelf.

Ezra throws open the dresser, and grabs whatever clothes he can, throwing them into the suitcase without bothering to fold or look at them. It’s not as if it’s hard to distinguish which ones are his, even with the lack of adequate lighting in the room, with their contrasting colour schemes and all. Ezra finds himself wondering when exactly he’d picked that up. All his photos from the old news clippings that Ezra remembers have him wearing sensible light–coloured sweater vests.

He hits the bottom of the dresser. There’s something else in there, something that wasn’t there the last time they’d folded clothes after laundry day. An envelope, made out of kraft paper, with a vinyl sticker of a coiled black–and–red snake keeping its flap sealed shut. Ezra picks it up, flipping the envelope over as he goes to sit on the edge of the bed.

Crowley’s — _Raphael’s_ neat, looping handwriting greets him. Red ink, the same shade of red they use to keep track of the orders in the flower shop’s logbook.

_Happy birthday, angel,_ it says, and Ezra starts, suddenly sitting up straight. With everything else that’s going on, he’s almost forgotten his birthday’s coming up. Ezra gently picks at the sticker with a nail, trying his hardest not to rip it as his hands start shaking uncontrollably.

He pulls out a letter, still in that same looping handwriting, except that the ink that bleeds through the scented paper is blue instead. There doesn’t seem to be anything else in the envelope, but when Ezra unfolds the letter, lighter and much smaller pieces of paper flutter out and land on the cold floor. Ezra bends down, picking them up as he bites at his lip.

Chunnel tickets, dated two weeks from now, along with tickets to the Louvre and the Jardin Shakespeare. Ezra turns his gaze to the ceiling, swallowing back a sob. Stupid man. He _knows_ they could’ve just watched the Bard’s plays in West End if he’d wanted to.

Ezra lies down on the bed, letting his head hit the pillow, the tickets placed on the nightstand as he attempts to read the letter again.

_You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?_ _Bought these the day I was going to propose, so I don’t really know how well you took that. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna pull that stunt on you again. I’ll wait, however long it takes you to make up your mind. And well, if you actually said yes, ignore everything else I just said. I’m taking you to France and I _will_ teach you French, so you gotta file a leave now before Gabby Shitechurch has another temper tantrum and refuses to approve it. I’ll probably be in the kitchen making breakfast when you find this, so you should get up and eat. I promise I won’t burn the toast this time. Happy birthday, dearest._

_Love always,_

Ezra’s vision blurs at the edges, and he blinks back tears, rubbing his fingers over the signature before setting the letter down on the bed next to him. _Anthony,_ he’d signed himself. But that’s not really his name, is it? A lie, scribbled onto the edge of the page, like so many other things he’s told Ezra over the years. Why didn’t he just say anything? Didn’t he trust Ezra to keep his secrets?

He blinks, mulling the letter over, taking them apart syllable by syllable, before piecing them back together. There’s nothing but sincere affection in the words, and if Ezra closes his eyes, he can see Crowley — _Raphael _— scribbling drafts of the letter in the shop’s backroom, chewing at the cap of the pen as he always does when he’s deep in thought.

Ezra curls up on the bed, choking on a sob as he lets sleep overtake his frazzled nerves.

Ezra wakes up cold, shivering, and with a head pounding like hell. He must’ve fallen asleep without changing out of his outside clothes after an overtime shift again. His hands instinctively reach over to the opposite side of the bed, eyes still shut as a yawn escapes from his lips.

His arms land on a cold, empty space, and he thinks, _maybe Crowley woke up too early again and he’s in the kitchen making breakfast._

Then he remembers, and Ezra’s eyes snap wide open.

_He’s not here,_ Ezra’s thoughts supply, as he sits up with fresh tears threatening to overflow from his eyes. _He’s not here because he’s _dying _and I helped do that to him._

_God,_ what has he done?

He stumbles out of bed, stubbing his toe on a wheel of his suitcase as he tries to get his bearings together.

His suitcase. He was packing last night, wasn’t he? He shouldn’t be here. Any moment now and one of the Christchurches would probably arrive to kick him out on the curb. And why wouldn’t they? It’s well within their rights, after all. Ezra has no reason to stay here, not after what he’s done, _not after he almost killed his fiancé._

Ezra presses down on the suitcase as he zips it shut, before he walks away from it and enters the bathroom. Maybe a splash of water could wake him up from this nightmare.

He sees his own reflection staring back at him as he dries his face with a towel. Funny how just one night could change someone’s appearance so drastically. Bloodshot eyes from crying, dark circles under them, and the sort of wobbly–lipped frown Ezra doesn’t think he’s ever seen on his face before. The face in the mirror is too sad, too worn–out to have belonged to the same man who just two nights previously had accepted a marriage proposal from someone he’d thought was the love of his life.

Ezra pinches the bridge of his nose, reaching up at the medicine cabinet overhead. Someone has placed the bottle of aspirin at the back of the shelf, and Ezra’s knuckle hits the back panel as he reaches for it.

The knock sounded hollow.

He uncorks the bottle, dry swallowing a pill before he knocks at the back panel again. There’s the hollow sound again. Ezra reaches for the phone in his pocket, shining the camera flash into the cabinet. There’s a notch near the top corner, just small enough to slip a finger in it and slide it open.

Which is exactly what Ezra does.

Ezra pulls at the notch, and the false panel gives with the slightest force, revealing a hidden space at the back. He feels stupid now, for never actually questioning why the upper shelf seemed so much shallower than the lower shelf. There’s a whole bunch of pill bottles sitting in it, long and complicated and difficult to pronounce. Ezra frowns, sighing aloud as he slams the cabinet shut. Why would he think he has to hide? He could have said _something_ and Ezra still wouldn’t treat him differently, but instead, Ezra found out in the worst way possible.

Curiosity gets the better of him in the end, and Ezra spends the better part of an hour sitting cross–legged on the cold bathroom tiles, reading Wikipedia article after Wikipedia article, trying to figure out what each of the bottles scattered around him are for. Beta–blockers, anti–arrythmics, diuretics, blood thinners, _antidepressants,_ facts upon facts blurring into each other that even for someone who’s spent his entire life finding the meaning behind words written on a page, it’s simply too much for him to process all at once.

_He should have said something,_ Ezra’s mind insists, his thoughts still racing as he turns his phone screen off.

Ezra places his hand on the edge of the sink, using it to pull himself upright on unsteady legs. He puts the pill bottles back into the cabinet, slowly, carefully, before closing the panel again as if he hasn’t touched them at all. Vaguely, he thinks, _maybe I should call the office, ask for some time off._

And then he realizes, _Do I still have a job after last night?_ Sure, he may not have had an altercation with his boss, but Gabriel Christchurch is the type of person who would be petty enough to fire him over breaking up with his older brother.

Ezra hides his face behind both hands, sighing aloud as he lets his hands slide slowly away again. He needs to get out of here, needs to talk to someone about this. If he tries to parse through this all on his own, he doesn’t know how long it will be before he finally loses it.

The cab drops him off at Soho. It’s not as if he has anywhere else left to go. Ezra drags his suitcase behind him as he walks up the familiar steps to his old flat complex. Nothing much has changed in the months since he’d moved out, but the flickering lights coming from the window of his old unit tells him that someone’s already occupying it. Guess he can’t just move back in again, he thinks, shaking his head. On the other hand, there’s candlelight blinking from the unit next door, which must mean Madame Tracy’s in with a client right now. Maybe there’s still hope for him yet.

Ezra grunts as he pulls the suitcase up to the last step on the staircase, sighing aloud as he sits beside it and waits.

Ezra is about to nod off to sleep sitting on the steps when a small group of people start filing out of the flat complex. He stands up, tugging his suitcase closer to him to make way for the leaving customers. Ezra spots Madame Tracy herself standing by the entrance as she waves them off, wearing her blonde bob cut wig, a purple feather boa and her tie–dyed orange shawl over what one can only assume is a poofy red dress that feels like it came straight from the fifties, giving the entire look the appearance of a two–tiered birthday cake, if the birthday cake were an eye–searingly coloured poisonous frog.

When the last of her clients have turned the block, Madame Tracy finally takes notice of Ezra, flouncing towards him with her usual playful grin.

“Hello, Ezra dear,” Madame Tracy says, her smile unwavering. “Whatever brings you here today? And where’s your young man?”

“Euh,” says Ezra, lowering his gaze to fiddle with the handle of his suitcase.

Madame Tracy frowns, finally noticing the many belongings Ezra took with him. “Did something happen?” she asks, her eyebrows furrowed together.

“That’s…” Ezra mumbles, as he tugs at the hems of his cuffs, still refusing to make eye contact. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Madame Tracy nods in understanding, as she places a sympathetic hand on Ezra’s upper arm. “Let’s get you inside, dear,” she whispers, whisking Ezra into the complex.

Ezra sits in Madame Tracy’s kitchen, wrapped in her hot pink fleece blanket and divested of the coat that’s still nowhere near fully dry after getting soaked in last night’s thunderstorm, staring at his reflection on Madame Tracy’s tempered glass dining table as Madam Tracy puts a kettle on the stove. “Who got my unit?”

“Some nice young man who just moved in from Dorking. Awful lot of blackouts since he moved in. I bring him my pot roast sometimes,” Madame Tracy says as she pulls the chair opposite Ezra and sits down to face him. “Will you talk about what happened?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just… I don’t…” Ezra hesitates, wrapping the blanket around him tighter despite the summer heat. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Madame Tracy pushes an open tin of Danish butter biscuits closer to Ezra. “Did you have a row?” she asks, leaning forward.

Ezra shakes his head, both to deny the question and to refuse a biscuit, no matter how tempting it may seem. “No, it wasn’t anything like that. It’s…” _There really isn’t a way to go around this, huh._ “It’s because I found out he was lying. About everything, I mean.”

“What do you mean, Ezra?” Madame Tracy asks, just as the kettle begins whistling to a boil, startling both of them. She recovers first, blinking as she excuses herself to turn the stove off, pouring the hot water onto a cup of chamomile tea waiting by the counter, and sets it before Ezra.

“He’s not… He’s not really Anthony Crowley,” begins Ezra, a lump starting to form in his throat as his eyes well up. “His real name is _Raphael Christchurch_ and I don’t… I don’t really know what to believe anymore,” he adds, the tears flowing down his cheeks and dripping straight onto the teacup.

“Oh. Oh, _dear,”_ says Madame Tracy, fumbling in her skirt pockets for a handkerchief. “Christchurch? But isn’t that—”

“My boss’s name, yes,” Ezra cuts in with a slight hiccough, furiously wiping at his tears with the back of his sleeve. “He’s my boss’s _brother_ and he never once said a word!”

Madame Tracy waves away Ezra’s arm, as she leans over to dab at his tears with the handkerchief she found in her pocket. “So how did you find out?”

“Last—” replies Ezra with a shaky breath. “Last night. Left in the middle of the night and wouldn’t tell me where we were going until I met their other brother and found out their sister’s in the hospital.”

“Take a sip, dear. I promise it’ll do you good,” Madame Tracy says, pushing the cup closer to Ezra. “And? What happened then?”

“I broke up with him,” says Ezra, cupping at the teacup with both hands without actually sipping from it.

“So you didn’t give him a chance to explain?”

Ezra’s hands shake around the cup, and he places it back down on the table before he could drop it. “I didn’t want to hear any more lies.”

“And why would you think he’d just lie again?” asks Madame Tracy, placing her hand on top of Ezra’s, steadying it.

_“Why wouldn’t he?”_ Ezra shoots back, more harshly than he’d intended. “He’s already lied about everything else.”

Madame Tracy’s eyes soften, as she squeezes Ezra’s hands. “Not everything, Ezra. Feelings are notoriously hard to lie about, you know.”

“If he really loved me, then why wouldn’t he tell me about his past?” asks Ezra, turning his eyes towards the linoleum floor.

“Well, did you tell him about your past?” Madame Tracy asks, tilting her head to the side.

Ezra sighs, biting at his lip. “I don’t have nearly as many secrets.”

“But you _do_ have secrets, don’t you?” asks Madame Tracy again, tapping at Ezra’s hand. “Hear him out first, Ezra.”

“I _can’t,”_ Ezra says, getting the urge to fidget with the ring, before he remembers how he returned it. “He’s at the hospital right now, too. He’s collapsed after… after I broke up with him. Some sort of heart condition. He didn’t tell me about that, either,” he adds bitterly.

Madame Tracy’s eyes widen at that. “Then why aren’t you at his side?” she asks.

“I—” Ezra starts, taken aback by the question. “His brother kicked me out. Not Gabriel, the other one.”

“Still doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be there,” says Madame Tracy, matter–of–factly.

“What are you saying, Madame Tracy?” Ezra asks, his eyes turning back to the cup of tea.

“I’m saying,” Madame Tracy says, her eyes twinkling. “That maybe you should go back there. Ask for an explanation. And then that’s when you decide.”

Ezra looks up at Madame Tracy, catching her eye. She does have a point. He needs to hear Crowley out first. He nods, as he slowly brings the cup up to his lips and tentatively takes a sip, the chamomile tea warming him up inside and soothing his nerves.

Tomorrow, he’ll go back to Cambridge. Ezra still has questions, dozens upon dozens of them, and he needs an answer for each of them. Today, though? He’ll stay at Madame Tracy’s, drinking as much chamomile tea as it takes for him to calm down. And maybe then, he’ll begin to understand.


	16. Verbena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is like a month late, but on the bright side, this is also twice the usual chapter length. Also, mind the tags. Again.

Lucifer is nearly asleep when something hits him in the head.

“Wha—” He doesn’t get the chance to finish, considering there is a very, _very_ angry almost–sister–in–law glaring at him. 

“Samael Alexander Mountbatten Chr—”

_“Don’t_ finish that,” Lucifer snaps, grimacing at the mention of his last name. He’s not used it amongst friends since leaving for Los Angeles. “Who called you?”

Bee glowers at him, keeping her fists clenched as she crosses her arms over her chest. Lucifer feels even guiltier now for not letting her know what she was walking into ahead of time — she had been one of Crowley’s best friends at university, and she had mourned along with the family.

“Gabriel,” she replies, pulling up the other uncomfortable plastic chair in the room to sit next to Lucifer. “To come pick Mika up. She nearly collapsed in the hallway this morning, she’s not slept in… too long. I’m driving her home before _she_ ends up in the hospital herself.”

Lucifer nods slowly, bracing himself, though he doesn’t know for _what._

Bee huffs, pacing back and forth twice, before she crosses her arms again. “How long have you _known?”_

“Since about a year after he left,” he answers. “I got a call, he’d been hospitalised for endocarditis. He forgot I was still his emergency contact on his cell.”

“Dumbass,” she groans, but the slight smile tugging at her lips betrays a hint of fondness, before she sighs, nodding her head in Raph’s direction. “Though that figures, you wouldn’t have named your hellspawn after him otherwise. What happened this time?”

“Fiancé broke up with him after he found out about all of the secrets,” Lucifer states, shrugging. “And then Uriel coded and he just… collapsed.”

“So what’s it looking like?”

“Tricuspid regurgitation, needed emergency surgery to get it fixed last night. He must’ve had it a while now, you know how stubborn he gets with doctor’s appointments,” Lucifer sighs. “The doctors are saying it’s touch–and–go. They’re thinking of placing him on the transplant list.”

Lucifer examines the look on her face as she looks at the hospital bed. She swallows hard, clasping her hands in front of her.

“I didn’t recognize him, at first,” she says quietly. “He doesn’t look the same.”

Lucifer hums in acknowledgement, his eyes flicking back towards Crowley, lying pale and fragile on the bed, so heavily sedated that he’s unable to even breathe on his own.

“Have you told Dagon yet? She’ll—”

“Absolutely not,” he interrupts. “I already had to wrangle with one of his friends today, don’t make me do it again with another. And they don’t even know if he’ll make it to the end of the day. You can’t get her hopes up like that.” 

“And how do you think she’ll react once she finds out you _hid_ _it from her?” _Bee fires back. She doesn’t look at Crowley. “He was — _is — _her best friend. She never… I don’t know if she ever really believed he died. She held onto that hope for so long.”

“So then what do I tell her if he doesn’t come out of it?” Lucifer finally snaps, seething. “What do I tell her then, Bee? How do I tell her that this is, in part, _my fault?”_

“I don’t _know,_” she snaps back, raising her voice and clenching her hands in fists at her side, her tone just as scalding as Lucifer’s had been as she narrows her eyes in his direction. “But it’s better than no one knowing, and then the truth comes out, and we all have to go through another funeral!” 

“I—”

“You and I both know Michael can’t do it again,” she says, her voice dropping dangerously low. “You know that she won’t make it if he dies again.”

_Again_. Because this isn’t the first time that his brother has knocked on death’s door, but this time it might really be the last. Lucifer can remember the funeral like yesterday — they’d called it a memorial in the papers, but everyone knew what it really was; the suit still sits in his closet at the manor, unused and pushed to the back along with the memories from that day that were too painful to dwell on for long.

Bee had been there, in equal parts because she was — _is?_ — Raphael’s friend, but she’d spent a majority of her time holding Michael’s hand pretending as if they weren’t anything other than friends, while Dagon had spent her time with her and Raph’s shared circle of friends, giving pointed looks to Mum and Dad whenever they cried by the photo placed by the church’s altar — or at least, Mum did; Dad had always been too preoccupied with himself to care about any of them. Lucifer had kept Uriel and Gabriel close by, trying to keep them away from the prying eyes of the press — Lucifer was used to the publicity by this point, but Gabe’s world was seemingly falling apart around him and Uriel was still so young at the time to understand.

Lucifer looks back to Bee, narrowing his eyes at her in turn.

“You don’t get to tell me how it affected her,” he hisses. “How it affected _me_, to have known all this time.”

“You could _still _have said something.”

“You don’t think I wanted to?” Lucifer snaps, again, feeling his days–long headache begin to worsen. “I didn’t _ask_ to carry this burden, but he _asked _me to keep it a secret. It was the least I could do for him after everything.”

Bee sighs, rubbing her temples. “I’m not here to argue. It’s just…”

“I know,” Lucifer finishes for her. “You don’t have to say it. It’s hard for everyone.”

Bee sits back down in the other seat on the other side of the bed, staying a little while longer until she eventually bids goodbye to go home to check on Michael.

Lucifer is on his way back to Crowley’s room to stand vigil when his name is called out. He should have expected this — Gabe had texted him almost an hour prior, warning him that their mother’s flight had landed and that she was on her way. For a moment he tries to ignore her, tries to _keep walking_, but—

_“Samael Alexander!”_ she yells, making him freeze in his tracks. She _never _uses his first and middle name like that.

He forces on a grimace, something that _almost_ resembles a smile, and turns around. “Mum,” he says, taking a few steps forward. “It’s good to see you.”

“Gabriel didn’t tell me you were here,” she says in a tone nearing reproach, but hugs him all the same.

“I… I’ve been in town for a little while—”

“And you didn’t _call?”_ she interrupts, crossing her arms. The formidable Lady Ashara Christchurch, matriarch of the family, aloof as ever — well, only since… 

“I’m sorry, I was caught up with Adam,” he replies, trying to sound sincere despite the words being only a half–truth.

“I’ll call Gabe, we’ll all go to lunch in the café. My treat,” Lucifer says, as he shoots Gabriel a text, asking him to come downstairs, and that their mother’s arrived.

_Because I have to tell you that you’ve mourned a child unnecessarily for a decade_, goes unsaid, as he shakes away the depressing train of thought.

Lucifer gets them a table, and a few minutes later, Gabriel’s downstairs, looking worse for the wear as Mum waves him over to their spot.

“How is she?” Mum asks before Gabriel can even sit down.

“She’s looking better,” Gabriel replies. “She did well in surgery.”

Lucifer notices the way Gabriel leaves out the earlier scene of doctors rushing into their sister’s room at the call of an alarm, but says nothing of it. What Mum doesn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

“That’s— that’s good,” she replies with a nod.

Lucifer waves down the single waitress in the café, requesting two teas and a coffee before thanking her as she walks away.

“How was your holiday in Barcelona?” Gabe tries, hands primly folded in front of him on the table.

Mum gives Gabriel a half–smile, before turning a withering glare to Lucifer that makes him feel like a scorned teenager again. Their father may have been dead these past five years, but she’d picked up his glare in his absence. 

“It was fine, but get to it. You’re both hiding something.” She puts one of her hands on top of Gabriel’s, squeezing lightly. “You were always a bad liar, dear.” 

“Actually, _Lu’s_ the one who’s been hiding something,” Gabe immediately responds, and Lucifer is overcome with the desire to strangle him. He’s always been a brat.

Mum’s eyes narrow at Lucifer, one perfectly defined eyebrow arched up.

Lucifer swallows around the lump in his throat. _She went away because of the anniversary and now I have to tell her that he’s alive, but only barely, because he had another episode_, he thinks bitterly. He’s always been the bearer of bad news. It’s no wonder he decided to move to LA after their father held the straw that broke the camel’s back.

The waitress comes back, setting the teas in front of Gabriel and Mum and the coffee in front of Lucifer along with a tray of creamer and sugar packets on the table before she takes her leave. 

“It’s Raphael,” Lucifer says hesitantly when the waitress is out of sight, holding his mug with both hands and letting the warmth seep into them.

Mum’s face falls. “I know what week this is,” she responds quietly, looking at her hands that cup her own mug. “I… _know _how hard it must be for both of you, for it to have been so long.”

Lucifer catches the glare that Gabriel sends him as he loads his tea with the sugar packets — something that Raphael had taught him as a child, that tea was only good if it was sweet enough to bestow cavities. Even after Raph left, Gabe had only ever had his tea that way.

“It’s not that, Mum,” Lucifer tries again, “It’s—”

He’s choking on the words, unable to get them out as Mum moves her hands to overlap his. He looks up into her worried eyes, the same colour as Mika’s. It’s like he’s breaking his sister’s heart all over again. It’s like the day he told Mum he was _leaving _all over again.

Gabriel looks away, apparently finding a tile on the floor more interesting than the trainwreck in motion that this conversation is proving itself to be. 

“Alex,” she says softly. “Just tell me.”

“He’s alive,” he chokes out. “He’s been alive this _whole time _but I — he wouldn’t let me _tell anyone, _I _wanted to, _and—”

And for the second time that day, he’s slapped across the face, this time on the opposite side where Mika had earlier. He doesn’t blame her for it, either.

When Lucifer musters the courage to meet his mother’s eyes again, there’s a horrified expression across her face.

“Oh God, Alex, I— I don’t know— I’m so so—”

“No, it’s fine,” he quickly interrupts, rubbing his palm over the throbbing skin. “Not the first time it’s happened today, probably won’t be the last. I suppose I deserve it.” 

“No, you— I told myself I’d never hit any of you. For any reason, _ever._ I… I think it was just a reflex. I don’t know what came over me.” She reaches for his hand that’s still on the table, and he lets her hold it. “I’m sorry, darling.”

“You’re _apologizing?”_ Gabriel asks, nearly choking on a sip of his tea. “He’s kept this from us for — it’s been a _decade_, Mum!”

“It doesn’t sound as if he had much of a choice,” Mum counters, taking care not to sound too pointed. “But why do you bring this up now, Alex?”

Lucifer’s drawn back to the hospital corridor, his brother lifeless in his arms again and the same terrified look on Mika and Gabe’s faces like all those years ago.

“It’s… He’s not well, Mum,” Lucifer tries.

Gabriel sighs, finishing his tea before pushing it aside with a clinking of the cup. “He’s had another episode. Collapsed in the hall outside of Uriel’s room,” he finishes for Lucifer. “From what we’ve heard, it’s bad this time. Worse than before.”

“Oh, God,” she whispers quietly. “Worse than—”

“When he was seventeen, yeah,” Lucifer mumbles in response, hand shaking as he raises the coffee cup to his lips, wincing at the bitter aftertaste. He waits a moment before he continues. “He was happy, he’s got—” Lucifer thinks back to the earlier altercation in his brother’s room. “He _had_ a fiancé.”

“Past tense?” she asks.

Gabriel nods, while a dark shadow flits over Lucifer’s face as he speaks.

“His fiancé didn’t know before all of this. He… didn’t take it well. Gave him the ring back and everything. I found Raph standing in the rain before I dragged him back inside.”

Lucifer ignores the way that his mother shakes like a leaf in a storm. It’s the most he can do because he can never really be angry with her for any of this — sure, she’d let their father be a massive prick, but she was just as scared of him as the rest of them were, just as scared as _Raph_ was of him. If it wasn’t for their status in high society and the resulting scandal that would have ensued, Lucifer is sure she would have left their father a long time before his death had done the job for her.

“I can’t imagine what all of you have been through the past few hours,” Mum says quietly. She moves one of her hands from Lucifer’s and puts it on Gabriel’s. “Is he—”

“He’s not dead,” Lucifer clarifies, leaving off the ominous _not yet_ because it wouldn’t help anything. “They don’t know what’s going to happen. Last night he had surgery. On his chart, it says something about the transplant list.”

“That’s what they said the last time.”

“It’s not like last time, Mum,” Gabriel says quietly. “I think it’s worse.”

Mum nods before looking back to Lucifer. “Can I see him?” she asks, and then adds, “Both of them?” 

“I don’t see why not,” Lucifer replies, looking to Gabriel. “Am _I_ allowed to see Uriel?”

“I think Mika’s gone home, so I don’t think there’s anyone to stop you,” Gabriel sighs, leaving a few quids on the table to cover their drinks and a substantial tip for the waitress before he stands from the table.

Mum and Lucifer follow after Gabriel, going with him to the elevator to ride it up to the paediatric ICU in silence. Lucifer hesitates when he comes to the door with his sister’s name printed on a medical chart, but follows Gabriel in anyways.

Uriel is laying slightly propped up in bed, breathing tube still in place while she is, presumably, asleep. There’s a number of lines connected to her, for IV fluids and to monitor her heart rate, her breathing, and plenty of other things he could only speculate about. It’s not like Lucifer had been the one to go to medical school, after all.

Gabriel had mentioned earlier in the day that the doctors had mentioned her organs were still functioning normally, that the scare from the night before had something to do with fluid around her heart — something called a tamponade — but that she should be out of the woods now. She’s so peaceful now, though, that it’s almost unbelievable to think that just a day or so before she was nearly dead in an alleyway.

Mum gasps all of a sudden, one hand flying to cover her mouth as she hurries to Uriel’s bedside. She takes the seat that Lucifer assumes Mika had occupied the night before — the one closest to Uriel’s head — and takes one of her hands.

“Oh, baby,” she breathes out, bringing Uriel’s knuckles to her lips while a few tears slip down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

“Doctors said she should make a full recovery,” Gabriel chimes in, standing at the foot of her bed, idly tapping his fingers onto the plastic bedframe. “The knife missed most of the vital stuff. She’ll need to take it easy for a while once she’s out and she’ll need time off school to stay home.”

Mum nods, pulling a handkerchief from her purse to daub at her eyes. “You said earlier in your message that it was a mugging,” she says, taking a deep breath, “Has whoever done it been caught yet?”

Gabriel shrugs, smiling thin–lipped. “Don’t know yet, she’s not been awake to tell the police anything. The officer I spoke to said they did get some witness statements and they’re doing their best.”

Mum nods silently, rubbing her thumb back and forth over the back of Uriel’s hand.

It’s the first time that Lucifer’s been able to see Uriel since being kicked out by Michael last night, and he looks around the room to see if they’d let her keep her bag and clothes. The table nearby provides him with an answer, a clear bag labelled _Patient’s Belongings_ sits on top of it, containing Raph’s old messenger bag with all of its pins still attached, and Lucifer silently lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding — Uriel would have been _devastated_ if it had been lost.

They stay with Uriel for a while, quietly keeping her and each other company before Mum finally stands up and with a final wipe of her eyes, straightens herself in her seat.

“I want to see Raphael,” she says, keeping her voice even.

Lucifer nods. “He’s on down the hall,” he answers. “The cardiac ICU ward.”

“We passed him?” Mum asks.

“A different wing,” he answers. “I… figured we needed some time.”

Mum nods, while Gabriel looks pensive, looking between their mother and sister.

“Can I… Can I come along?” Gabriel asks as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his trousers, as if he’s ten again and asking if they could visit his big brother at the hospital first before going to school.

Lucifer nods, leading the way out of the room and down the hall. At the next intersection, they take a left and continue while Lucifer tries to find the words that need to be said.

“He doesn’t look good,” he says carefully. “And he looks… different. He’s not Raphael anymore, Mum. He’s Anthony Crowley.”

Mum balls her hands into fists. “What does it say on his medical file?” she asks.

Gabriel furrows his brow. “I told them that he changed his name, but… He’s under Raphael Christchurch,” he explains. “It was easier with the medical files and the nurse wasn’t too keen on the family drama aspect of it.”

“They rarely are,” Mum says dryly.

Lucifer is suddenly very angry all over again, but still, he says nothing. He doesn’t need to start a fight right now, not with something as petty as a name. 

They reach the nurse’s station and the three of them make a right, Lucifer still leading — though Mum has taken to walking next to him.

“Just… be ready for the worst. I don’t want anyone else collapsing,” Lucifer mutters, waving to the charge nurse at the desk as they pass before entering Crowley’s hospital room.

This time, Mum doesn’t gasp, she just _wails_ at the sight of the child she’d mourned for a decade, looking so close to death’s doorstep once again — something that she’s had to see more than once. She rushes his side in less than a second, leaning over him and brushing his hair away from his eyes in the same way she did when Raph had kept it much longer than it is now.

“My baby,” she whispers quietly. “My Raphael.” 

“Crowley,” Lucifer corrects, while Gabriel just lingers at the entryway. “Or Anthony if you prefer.”

She nods, but Lucifer’s fairly sure that she’s not listening to him as she gets a good look at her formerly missing child’s face, even with it obstructed by the breathing tube connecting him to the ventilator.

Gabe takes a step forward, looking pensive.

“I wonder if he ever thought about us,” Gabe says, his voice barely above a whisper. “If he ever regretted leaving.”

“You and I both know he wouldn’t have lasted this long if he didn’t leave,” Lucifer says flatly. “Or, if he had, I’d be in prison for killing Dad. It’s a coin toss.”

Gabriel sighs. “Maybe not,” he offers. “We do have good lawyers.”

Lucifer snorts, suppressing a laugh. The moment doesn’t last long, when the heart monitor starts picking up slightly. Mum stumbles backwards a step and the room collectively holds its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never does, and the beeping eventually settles itself at the still too–rapid than normal pace it now has.

But the room doesn’t lose its tension, and everyone stands still for a few tense moments, until Mum breaks it by slowly going back to Crowley’s bedside, back to stroking his hair as she whispers to him, while her two other children try to settle themselves. To no one’s surprise, it doesn't work no matter how long they stand and breathe and try not to think back to the many times they’ve been put in this situation.

Eventually, Lucifer and Gabriel settle themselves enough to stand on either side of their mother while she sits and cries over her lost child.

When he’s escorted Mum and Gabriel out of the room, Lucifer sinks back into the chair he’s been occupying for the past fourteen hours, utterly drained of any remaining energy. He sighs, dragging his palm across his face as he closes his eyes, leaning onto the backrest.

_“Damn it, Raph,”_ Lucifer snaps, suddenly angry, with his brother for leaving him to fix the mess he’d started, with his brother’s fiancé for not caring a whit about Raph’s health, with their piece of shit father for driving them all away in the first place. “I can’t do this all on my own, you know.”

There’s no answer, not even a twitch of a finger like they always seem to show in the telly, to tell him that Raph had heard his voice. Nothing but the endless beeping of the heart monitor ringing in his ears.

Lucifer takes in another deep breath, pushing himself up in order to lean against the edge of the bed, placing his head next to Raph’s as he takes Raph’s hand into his, squeezing it tight.

“Hey,” Lucifer whispers, brushing away a stubborn lock of hair that keeps falling over his brother’s face. “You need to wake up soon. I don’t know what else to tell everyone. And besides… You can’t just leave, not when you’ve just come back. You know they’re not really angry with you, right? We can all start over after this. I know it’s not easy, but this time we’ll help. You don’t have to be alone again, I promise. So please. Wake up, Raphael.”

Lucifer sighs, blinking as he tries to chase away sleep. He shouldn’t, not when Raph’s still in such a precarious condition. But Bee was right, wasn’t she? It’s not going to help anyone if one of them collapses with exhaustion while keeping watch over their siblings. It wouldn’t hurt if he gets some sleep, even if only for just an hour.

“Good night, Raph,” he says instead, stifling a yawn as he rubs his thumb over the back of Raph’s ice–cold hand. “See you tomorrow.”

Lucifer wakes up with a start to the sensation of his shoulders being roughly shaken. The sterile blue of nursing scrubs registers in his half–lidded eyes as he opens them, and when he blinks, it’s been replaced by the face of the charge nurse from this afternoon, her expression a mask of practised calm as her lips move with words Lucifer cannot make out.

Someone pulls him up out of the chair he’s been sitting on, and the vacuum in his ears dissipates. Something is beeping, not in the steady, reassuring way that heart monitors are wont to do, but a shrill cacophony, playing out with neither rhyme nor reason.

His attention is pulled away again, and there’s a different nurse standing before him, still trying to address him.

“—ed to leave right now. We need to have room to work.”

Lucifer is nodding dumbly, still unsure of what’s going on, when he hears something that sends a chill running through his own heart.

“We lost his pulse. Start compressions.”

Someone pushes him aside, out of the way and through the door, but not before Lucifer could turn his head and glance behind him.

Raph’s still lying prone on the bed, desperately pale as medical staff swarm around him, someone standing over him and giving him chest compressions as another stands to the side waiting to deliver breaths.

Lucifer is still standing by the door, watching everything helplessly as someone pushes a crash cart past him. The first nurse notices him, closing the curtains in front of him to block his view.

“You really shouldn’t be here, sir,” she says.

“I know, I just—” Lucifer says, trembling uncontrollably as his knees give out from under him and he sinks to the floor. “Save him. _Please.”_

“They’re doing everything they can,” the nurse says reassuringly. It doesn’t work.

Lucifer looks up at her, pleading with his eyes. “We can’t lose our brother again.”

“And his doctors aren’t going to let you if they can help it,” she replies. “But you’re not doing your brother any favours just sitting here.”

“I know. I know that,” says Lucifer, blinking as he wipes away at his eyes with his palms. “Just let me stay here for a while.”

The nurse nods, smiling reassuringly at him as she leaves to go back into the room again. “We’ll find you later,” she says.

Lucifer hears the click of the door being shut, telling him that he’s alone. Behind him, he can still hear the chaos happening inside the room, orders being called, drugs being administered, the shrill noise of a heart monitor still beeping erratically in the background.

He looks up and around him, the fluorescent lights getting to his groggy eyes, and sees nothing but stark white walls that extend into seemingly infinite hallways. Lucifer blinks, taking in a shaky breath as he fumbles in his pockets for his phone, not really noticing whose number he’d dialled until the caller ID blinks into life.

Mum picks up at the first ring.

“Hey, Mum,” Lucifer says, no longer bothering to smother the panic lacing itself into his voice. “It’s— It’s Raph. Something happened.”


	17. Clematis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The non-linear narrative tag says hi.

The main building of the hospital complex looms large over Ezra as he gets off the bus, sweating through his coat as the sweltering heat of the summer sun beats down the back. There’s a distinct churning coming from his stomach; breakfast had been unappetizing as it hadn’t been in years, no matter how good Madame Tracy’s crumpets had smelt that morning.

He wills his legs to move forward, but they refuse, keeping him rooted to the spot. Maybe he should have thought this through first. Maybe it’s not the right time.

_You are dithering, Ezra Fell,_ he thinks, and the voice ringing in his head sounds so achingly familiar.

But it _has_ been two days. Hopefully, they’ve both calmed their tempers enough to actually, finally talk in a civil manner.

Ezra closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath, and steps forward, bracing himself for whatever is yet to come.

The concierge seems so much more intimidating, now that Ezra’s trudging along at a snail’s pace towards it, wringing his hands all the while. No one pays him any attention, no one approaches to tell him he’s been banned from entering the premises. They must have already forgotten him from two nights ago, although Ezra can’t imagine those kinds of things regularly happen at such a place as this.

The receptionist’s concentration is fully on the computer screen as Ezra finally stands behind the concierge, keyboard clacking as she transcribes an information sheet, the glint of her glasses getting into Ezra’s eyes and making him blink.

Ezra’s hand trembles uncontrollably as he reaches for the concierge bell, but at the last minute, he snatches it away, clearing his throat instead.

The receptionist looks up immediately, plastering a smile meant to reassure onto her face. “Yes?” she says, and Ezra can detect the false cheerfulness in her voice.

“Erm, hi,” Ezra says, tugging at his fingers behind his back. “Excuse me but I— I’m looking for Anthony Crowley’s room?”

“Sure thing, sir,” the receptionist replies. “May I just know what your relationship to the patient is?”

“He’s— Euh, he’s my—” _He’s my fiancé,_ Ezra had wanted to say. But that’s really not true anymore, is it? “He’s a friend of mine.”

“I see,” says the receptionist, nodding at him. “It’ll be just a moment.”

Ezra nods back, not trusting himself to say another word as the receptionist types into her computer.

The receptionist abruptly stops typing, her eyebrows furrowed together as she turns back to Ezra. “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no record of a patient with that name,” she says with a shake of her head. “Are you sure your friend was admitted here?”

_“Oh…”_ Ezra chews at his lip. They wouldn’t have transferred him, would they? “Could you— Could you check under Raphael Christchurch, just to be safe?” he asks, his tongue tripping up, still unused to saying a name so alien to him.

The receptionist obliges, side–eyeing him as Ezra continues to chew at his lip. “Oh, here it is,” says the receptionist finally, adjusting the frame of her glasses slowly slipping down her nose. “It says here he’s been admitted to the coronary care unit. Just make a right turn towards the lift and then get off at the third level. There should be someone at the nurses’ station who’ll tell you where to go from there,” she continues with a now–sympathetic smile.

_Oh, of course, he’d go back to using that name as soon as it’s convenient,_ Ezra thinks uncharitably, and then suddenly backtracks, as the receptionist’s words start to sink in.

_That was bad, wasn’t it? He’d have been in a different ward or a private room if it was otherwise,_ he thinks, as his tongue catches on his teeth and starts to taste of blood. _What if Crowley — Raphael — is still upset with him and the sight of Ezra makes him worse?_

Ezra startles, as he feels the receptionist’s stare boring into him and realises she’s still waiting for a reply. “Thank— Thank you,” Ezra says, swallowing around a lump in his throat as he nods, before he shuffles off in the direction she’d indicated.

There’s no one in the nurses’ station when Ezra disembarks from the lift. He’s about to look around for a staff member elsewhere when he stumbles upon a commotion happening in one of the rooms. His eyes trail up to the source, and immediately his breath hitches in his throat, as he spots a familiar shade of red hair on a woman whose tearful, heartbroken expression he is sure mirrors his own from two nights ago.

It couldn’t—

Surely Crowley would—

Ezra’s feet hit the ground, running as he’d never had before.

And then he stops short, just a few steps short. He was wrong. It isn’t Crowley’s sister that he saw, but a completely different young woman. He doesn’t know how he could have been mistaken in the first place, everything else about her looked wrong, even from what little Ezra could remember from that night. He’s never been so glad to be wrong, however, especially when he catches a glimpse what’s going on inside the room. A straight fine line on the monitor above the bed, exhausted doctors peeling gloves off their hands, as one of them gently smooths out a white sheet draped over _something._ No, not _something,_ Ezra realises with chilling clarity, _someone._

Ezra steps out of the way, as the doctors file out and speak to the person desperately waiting for news outside the door.

He walks back to the nurses’ station, hoping and praying that he doesn’t walk into a similar scene when he finds Crowley.

Ezra remains standing by the door, running a hand over the name on the wall beside it. Raphael Christchurch. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to it.

He twists the knob, huffing as he pushes the door open.

Ezra doesn’t know why he’d expected Crowley sitting up in bed and greeting him with a grin and some quip about a stuffy hospital room, but whatever other scenes he could conjure up with a limited imagination, none of them was certainly the one he’d just walked into.

The first thing Ezra notices is the overwhelming noise permeating all over the room, a steady hissing and beeping from the machines that next catch his eye. Ezra isn’t a doctor, or at least, not the medical kind, and he’s never had to stay at a hospital except for minor injuries, but a lifetime of consuming trash telly has him recognising the heart monitor mounted on a stand by the corner of the wall, each beat it displays coming on too fast for Ezra’s liking.

There are other machines in the room as well, various sensors and devices that Ezra did not know the function of. But the loud mechanical hissing that fills the room could have only come from the ventilator that quickly takes up all of Ezra’s focus, his eyes trailing their way along the translucent tube connected to it.

Ezra stifles a gasp as he sees the other end of the tube.

Crowley’s barely recognizable, the tube going down his throat obscuring most of his face, but of what Ezra _could _see, he wishes he couldn’t. The soft, fiery curls that Crowley had always taken time to maintain every morning now fall limp and lifeless down his shoulders, crumpled by the thin hospital–issue pillow, framing a skin that looks pale, paler than Ezra’s ever seen it before, even in the cold winter months when he shivered in bed next to Ezra no matter how many blankets he’d piled up over himself; the almost ashen appearance highlighting the dark circles beneath Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley himself remained inert, countless tubes and wires snaking their way all over him, the only perceptible movement the mechanical rise and fall of his chest in time with the ventilator’s hiss, a far cry from the way Ezra’s used to seeing him. Even in sleep, Crowley was always full of restless energy, tossing and turning every night in their king–sized bed before eventually settling with his arms around Ezra.

So fixated was he on Crowley’s present state that Ezra fails to notice Crowley’s furious brother pouncing upon him like a cat going in for the kill until Ezra’s been backed into the wall, his arm pressed dangerously across Ezra’s neck as he keeps Ezra pinned into place.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing here?” Crowley’s brother hisses, baring his teeth.

“I just—” Ezra says, as he tries to make his feet grip onto the tiled floor. “I wanted— I _needed_ to see him.”

“Gloating then, is it? Wasn’t enough for you to break his heart once, that you want to do it again?” Crowley’s brother demands, slamming his hand on the wall next to Ezra’s head, making Ezra flinch.

“I— I didn’t—” Ezra hesitates, grasping for words as he’s grasping onto the wall for support. He hates this, hates that his words always slip away from him like water on a sieve when he’s panicking, hates the situation Crowley’s put him in without warning, hates that now there’s no one else to save him from this other than himself.

_“Lucifer!”_ someone says as the door is flung open. “Stop it! What are doing?”

“Michael, I—” Crowley’s brother turns to the door, his face falling as he loosens his vise grip on Ezra so that Ezra can stand firmly on solid ground again.

“Let him go, Lu.”

Ezra tugs at his coat, his eyes flicking towards the door, and spots Crowley’s sister there, delivering a cutting glare to everyone in the room.

“I should throw him out,” Crowley’s brother — Lucifer, Ezra supposes — says, staring at their sister with pleading eyes, a complete contrast to the viciousness he’d displayed towards Ezra only moments ago. “After what he’s done to Raph, he shouldn’t—”

_“Enough,”_ their sister interrupts, raising a hand to make him stop, as she approaches both of them, her heels clicking on the floor with every step. “You don’t get to decide who’s allowed to see him. Not when you’ve been doing that for the past decade.”

Lucifer exhales loudly through his lips, turning again to Ezra with murderous eyes. “We’re not done here,” he hisses, before storming out of the room altogether.

Ezra swallows a lump in his throat, sure in the knowledge that Lucifer would soon make good of that threat. He bites at his lower lip, clearing his throat as he looks up at Crowley’s sister. “Thank—”

“Don’t say it,” Crowley’s sister says, who’s now standing in front of Ezra, staring at him from head to toe as if sizing him up. “I don’t know you, and I don’t know what it is you’ve done, but I’m sure it’s no excuse for our brother to act as he did.”

Ezra winces, shifting his feet around. He was so _sure_ everyone in Crowley’s family would’ve known about the damage he’s done by now.

Crowley’s sister sighs, as she goes to sit on the chair near Crowley’s head. “You were with Raph two nights ago, weren’t you? I don’t think we were properly introduced, considering the… _circumstances._ I’m Michael, by the way.”

“Ezra,” says Ezra, who’s unsure of what to do now. Should he sit at Crowley’s bedside as well? Is he even still allowed to do that? “Er, Fell. Ezra Fell. Erm.”

“Why don’t you sit?” says Michael, gesturing to the only other chair in the room. A sad smile plays upon her lips, her hand hesitating in midair before it eventually settles on top of Crowley’s head, fingertips brushing away at the stray strands of hair. “Tell me about my brother.”

Ezra shuffles on his feet, flashing a nervous smile as he settles on the chair across from Michael. Crowley is tantalizingly within his reach, and yet Ezra still can’t bring himself to even clutch at Crowley’s hand, not when he’s already renounced every right he’s had to be here.

“Come on. I don’t bite,” Michael says when she notices Ezra’s hesitation. “At least, unlike my brother there.”

He hesitates, unsure of what to say. How do you summarize the life of someone you’ve just found out you don’t actually know?

But Michael is still looking at him with expectant eyes, so Ezra closes his in turn, taking a deep breath.

“He runs a flower shop,” Ezra starts, running his hand along the wooden armrest, smoothened from the years of constant use. He wonders just how many others have sat here before him, watching over their loved ones, worried, hopeful, despairing. “In St James’s, across from the park. Eden.”

What happened to the shop, now that Crowley’s laid up here, hovering between life and death? Ezra hasn’t answered any of Anathema’s calls since yesterday. She should’ve known what happened by now, shouldn’t she? Anathema’s known Crowley longer than he has, after all.

“That sounds just like him,” says Michael, smiling fondly, even if only just a little. “He used to spend hours in our mum’s greenhouse, just yelling at the plants until he’s too out of breath to continue. I think that was his way of coping, actually. Where is he staying?”

“Erm. In Mayfair,” Ezra says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “We’ve a flat in the heart of it. Rather spacious. I’ve never been able to figure out how he could afford it on a florist’s paycheck. Well, until now.”

“Mayfair? _Lu’s flat?”_ says Michael, incredulous. “I— He’d told us he sold that place!”

Ezra sinks even further into his chair. _“Oh._ I— I see…”

“Do you know if…” Michael starts, idly combing her fingers through the strands of Crowley’s hair that are strewn about the pillow. “If he ever talked about us? If he ever thought of us after he left?” she asks, her voice faltering over the words, as if she was afraid of what the answer would be.

“He did,” says Ezra, nodding his head. “Sometimes. Never by name, but… I think he does miss you.”

Michael blinks, sighing. “That’s— _Thank you.”_

Neither of them dare to speak after that, the hissing and beeping of machines filling in the uncomfortable silence that ensues, a looming elephant in the room still yet to be addressed.

It’s Ezra who finally breaks the impasse, gripping the armrest as he takes a shaky breath. “Do you know if— Could you tell me about it? What’s wrong with him?”

Michael affects an emphatic smile, pulling her hand away from Crowley’s hair and placing it instead on his hand, brushing her thumb back and forth over the back of Crowley’s hand. “Weak heart,” she sighs. “Euh, how did they phrase it again? One of his valves were malformed at birth, and there’s also a hole in his septum. You’d never know it by the way he acts but… Scared us so much the first time this happened when he was sixteen. Been in and out of hospitals ever since. He never told you?”

_He never told you?_

It’s that question, asked with so much sincerity, that does it for Ezra, like an admission that Crowley never once trusted him with any of his secrets. “I— He never _said—”_

“It’s alright. Really,” says Michael, shaking her head. “He’s never been one to disclose, anyway. Every one of his friends only ever find out about his condition when… Well, when something like this happens.”

“But I’m his _fiancé,_ he should’ve said _something!”_ Ezra insists, blinking away at the tears forming at the corner of his eyes.

“His fiancé?” Michael echoes, her eyes widening at the sudden realization.

“Is. _Was._ I— I broke up with him. That night,” Ezra replies shakily, his nails digging into the fabric of his trousers. “I should’ve listened, should’ve let him explain. I— I was furious, I didn’t even give him a chance. And I am _so sorry_ about it now but he’s not even going to be able to hear me apologise, is he?”

“We all did something we regret that night,” says Michael, reaching across the bed to hold Ezra’s hands. “I wish I wasn’t so angry with, that I should’ve just talked to him instead, asked him why he left. I shouldn’t have made him leave. I want so badly for him to know that Uriel’s going to be just fine, and then maybe… Maybe he wouldn’t give up yet.”

Ezra looks up, suddenly, frighteningly clearheaded. “What— What do you mean, _give up?_ He’s not— He can’t be. _He can’t.”_

Michael’s hands are trembling as she squeezes at Ezra’s. “After— After you left, two nights ago, he’d had another surgery to fix his valves. Then last night, he’d crashed again while Lu’s keeping watch. That’s why he’d snapped at you earlier. The surgery was just a stopgap, it turns out. His heart’s failing.”

“He never told me anything about this,” says Ezra, whose tears are now streaming down his face. “Why didn’t he trust me?”

“I can’t answer for him,” Michael replies, shaking her head. “Maybe he just didn’t want you worrying sick about him. But I know that he does love you. He’d never have asked you to marry him otherwise.”

“I don’t know if I believe that,” mumbles Ezra, not trusting himself to look in Crowley’s direction again.

“Just take your time,” Michael says, making her tone sound as soothing to ruffled feathers as possible, and Ezra idly wonders if it’s something built into older sisters. “And then if — _when_ — Raph wakes up, discuss it with him. Ask him his reasons before deciding what you should do.”

Ezra doesn’t fail to notice Michael’s hesitation with her choice of words, but he refuses to ask about it, choosing instead to bite his lower lip as he nods his head.

The door suddenly swings open.

Michael spots her brother first, gasping indignantly as she lets go of Ezra’s hand and stands up, meeting her brother in the middle.

“Whatever you’re going to do, don’t,” Michael warns, as Lucifer walks past her and looms into Ezra’s view once more.

Ezra unclenches his jaw, already trying to think of a way to defend himself, when Lucifer narrows his eyes at him and doesn’t break eye contact as he gingerly slides something on the table next to Ezra.

When Lucifer pulls his hand away, Ezra realises what it is.

It’s the engagement ring, the light bouncing off the cut stone in its centre, seemingly mocking Ezra for his abandonment.

“How did you—”

“Don’t make me regret returning this to you,” mutters Lucifer, as Ezra watches him walk away and sink into the chair Michael had just vacated, holding his head in his hands.

Michael frowns, narrowing her eyes at her brother. “How long have you been standing behind the door?” she asks.

“Does it matter?” Lucifer says, sighing aloud. “But you were right. Raph wouldn’t have swallowed his pride and accepted the money I sent him last month just to buy a ring if he didn’t mean it.”

“You were giving him money?” asks Michael, her frown deepening.

_“You_ thought I’d leave him fending for himself?” Lucifer shoots back, as he looks up and stares at his sister incredulously. “That’s low, Mye. But he’s never once accepted any of it until last month. I’d been wondering why that is.”

Ezra shifts in his seat again, looking on as the siblings banter back and forth, apparently forgetting that he’s still in the room. The ring still catches at the corner of his eye, but as with everything else here, he refuses to reach out and touch it.

Finally, Michael catches his eyes, sensing the hesitation in them. She nods silently, giving him an encouraging smile before she turns to her brother once again.

Ezra places his palm over it, the cool metal surface still as burning to his skin as the night he’d returned it to Crowley, snatching it from the tabletop. He takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes as he slides the ring back on his finger, biting at his lip again as he does.

It still fits. He wonders why he ever thought it wouldn’t after only two days.

By the time Ezra’s able to tear his eyes away from the ring again, the siblings have finished with their argument, shown to Ezra by the fact that Lucifer now had both his hands up in surrender as Michael glares on at him.

_“Fine._ Maybe _you’re_ older,” Lucifer says, exhaling loudly. “Bee asked if you wanted to have lunch already, by the way.”

“We should, I think,” Michael replies, glancing at her wristwatch. “Ezra, are you coming?”

“No, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Come on. It’s high time you met our mother. Although,” Michael says, sighing as her eyes fall in Crowley’s direction. “He really should be introducing her to you and not us.”

Ezra smiles, thin–lipped, twisting the ring around his finger as he looks at Crowley as well, sucking in his breath and his pride as he reaches out and squeezes Crowley’s hand, nodding his head in silent agreement.


	18. Angel’s Trumpet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This had to be split. It was nearing 6k with no end in sight, you’ll get why when you read it. The other half’s going up next week.
> 
> Anyway, the non-linear narrative tag is still saying hi.

Gabriel’s work phone rings suddenly, startling him out of his paperwork–induced stupor. These days, it’s been getting harder for him to focus — especially as the end of this week approaches. His gaze falls on the yellowing photo of Raph and him that’s sitting on his desk, and Gabriel picks it up. The frame weighs heavily, held up in his hand, but he refuses to lay it down. He can’t bear to, not with the anniversary coming up, and with it the donation that Gabriel makes to their charities every year.

_None of that,_ Gabriel thinks bitterly, the voice in his head sounding eerily like Father’s, as he blinks away the blurriness in his eyes and raises the phone to his ear, putting the picture frame down in its place.

“Christchurch Conglomerate, this is Gabriel Christchurch speaking,” he says in his stuffy businessman voice, grimacing.

The person on the other line coughs like they’re startled. “You’re Uriel Christchurch’s emergency contact?” the person — a woman, tired and a bit shocked by the sound of her voice — asks him.

Gabriel furrows his eyebrows, wrestling down the sudden jolt of panic climbing up his chest. There has to be a mistake. It’s probably only some mix–up with her school, but— It’s not school hours anymore, is it? She’d texted him that she was going to the library to study. He was supposed to pick her up, what if something had happened to her because he had to cancel and stay at the office?

The woman at the other end of the line repeats her question, and Gabriel takes a shaky breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I am,” he responds. “I’m her brother. What’s going on?”

“Your sister was involved in a mugging. She’s been brought into Addenbrooke’s for treatment, she’s in surgery right now.”

The phone slips from his grasp, clattering onto his desk, as a thousand conflicting thoughts race through his brain at breakneck speeds. When had this happened? _What_ had even happened? Was she going to be alright, and what about their mother? Had she been called? Or — Oh God, Mika. Mika wouldn’t know, would she? And Lucifer needs to know too, even if he hasn’t talked to any of them since —

Gabriel’s eyes dart down to the picture on his desk again. Would God let him lose two siblings in the space of a decade, both of them taken at the prime of their lives? Raphael had only been twenty–three then, he’d been so close to becoming a doctor. Uriel hasn’t even finished secondary yet, she’d never be able to go into botany as she’d always wanted if something were to happen.

He can still hear the speaker’s voice muffled through his phone’s speakers, and idly Gabriel realises that he needs to pick it up again. The woman, whom Gabriel now realises is a nurse, tells him about Uriel’s condition and where she currently is in the hospital; Gabriel is barely able to take all of it down before she hangs up on him, leaving him in stunned silence.

Gabriel wants to cry. But instead, it hits him all at once and suddenly he’s up in a flurry of movement, gathering his things and stuffing them into his briefcase as he prepares to leave the premises.

There’s a knock at his office door, and Gabriel’s head shoots up, startled once again. The door opens as Gabriel turns around to look, and a mass of messy blond curls pokes through the crack.

Ezra Fell. _Of course,_ it just had to be the last person that Gabriel can deal with tonight.

“Uh— Mr Christchurch, I—”

_“What_ is it you want?” Gabriel snaps.

Ezra Fell looks like a deer in headlights seconds before impact. “I just need your signa—”

“I don’t have _time_ for this.” He gives his employee a scrutinizing once–over, his lip curling in disgust. “I’m dealing with something important, a family emergency, not that _you’d_ understand that. Go ask someone else.”

Gabriel turns his back and continues gathering his things, but the door still doesn’t click shut, and instead, Gabriel hears a blubbering noise telling him his employee’s still in the room.

_“I said get out!”_

Ezra Fell hurries out the door with a squeak, closing it behind him.

Gabriel’s hands are shaking, pausing as he tries to zip a compartment on the briefcase close.

_You know why, _Father’s voice chides him._ First Raphael and now Uriel. Two siblings and you do anything for either of them._

Gabriel’s breath hitches in his throat, and as he leaves the office space for the parking lot, he hopes that no one saw the way that tears slid down his cheeks. Father would never let him live it down otherwise.

Gabriel ends up having to sit in his car for two minutes, calming himself from the edge of a panic attack _(you’ve had them for years_, Father’s voice reminds him roughly, _handle it) _before he can pick up his phone, dialling Mika’s number, praying she wouldn’t be busy.

It rings twice before she picks up.

“Gabriel?” Michael replies from the other end, sounding weary. Belatedly, Gabriel remembers she’s working on a case right now. “What’s wrong?”

The dam breaks, and Gabriel can’t stop the tears from flowing as he speaks. “I–It’s Uriel, the hospital called me, Mika she was _mugged_—”

“Gabe, slow down,” she soothes over the phone, but Gabriel can hear the panic in her own voice. “Take a few deep breaths for me, like I taught you. Can you do that?”

Gabriel takes a shuddering breath, holding it a few seconds before letting it out.

Michael waits patiently on the other end for him to calm down again before she asks. “Now, what’s this about Uriel?”

“The hospital called me, the nurse said she’d been in a _mugging,_ that— that she was in surgery. I— I’m on my way, she’s at Addenbrooke’s.”

He hears Michael suck in a tense breath. “I need you to call Lu— Samael,” Mika says, forcing her tone to stay even. “Tell him what’s going on. I’ll meet you at the hospital. Okay, Gabe?”

Gabriel doesn’t reply, trying his very best not to panic and getting mixed results, judging by the acute ache in his chest.

“It’s going to be fine, okay?” Michael says, and Gabriel is reminded of how Lu had told him the exact same thing when he was ten. _They’re lying to him again._ “I want you to say it.”

“It’s like what happened with—”

“No, it is _not_,” Michael states firmly. “It’s not like that at all.”

“It’s the same hospital,” he sobs out, before Mika takes a deep breath on the other line. She’s no doubt in just as much panic as he is, if not more — the circumstances might be different, but she’s still about to lose another younger sibling in the same place where it all started.

“I need you to say it’s going to be okay for me,” Michael repeats. “Deep breaths.”

Gabriel manages to suck in a few breaths through unwilling lungs, sobbing a few times before he gets one right.

“Should I send a car?”

“I’m not a child,” he snaps, more out of instinct than anything. He immediately regrets it — they’re about to lose Uriel, he doesn’t need to go breaking Mika’s heart with his words as well.

“You’ll always be little to me,” she responds softly. “Just a few more breaths. It’s going to be okay.”

Gabriel nods to himself, taking another deep breath. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispers. “She’s going to be okay. This isn’t like before.”

“That’s it,” Mika replies. “Are you sure you’re alright to drive? I can pick you up, or send a car—”

“I’ll be okay,” he tells her, unsure if he could believe himself, but he still says them for Michael’s sake. “I’m fine, Mika. I’ll see you when I get there.”

“Okay,” she responds quietly. He can hear her thoughts whirring even while on the phone. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Gabriel says, clicking the line off before he can cry within his sister’s earshot again.

Michael is already waiting for him by the concierge by the time Gabriel arrives at the hospital, mumbling under her breath as she wears out her rosary beads as she hasn’t done since Raph—

Gabriel shakes his head. He doesn’t have the time to dwell on it again.

“How is she?” Gabriel asks without giving a warning, startling his sister into looking up at him.

“Still in surgery,” replies Michael, still absentmindedly thumbing through her beads. “I didn’t— I couldn’t ask. Did you call him?”

Gabriel nods, pursing his lips as he reaches for Michael’s hand, squeezing at it. “I did. I think he just went to sleep, he sounded— _Shit,”_ he suddenly exclaims, his eyes widening in realisation. “It’s the weekend, Adam should be with him tonight. Do you think he’d—”

“He wouldn’t,” she interrupts, squeezing his hand back. “You know him. I don’t think he’d even say anything unless he has to.”

_You mean like when you didn’t tell me how bad off Raph was until after he’s already awake and started asking where I was? _Gabriel thinks uncharitably. “Should we just wait in her room?” he asks instead.

Michael nods, sniffling slightly, and brother and sister walk, hand–in–hand, trying not to think about what comes next.

Lucifer arrives almost as soon as Uriel’s wheeled into the room, leaving Gabriel with no time to figure out how to explain anything that happened.

Gabriel wrings his hands, hovering near Uriel’s bed, as if that would do anything, as he tries to find his words before Lucifer could start demanding an explanation. But Lucifer never does; instead, his older brother stands still at the centre of the room, silently staring at all of them.

Gabriel would have preferred it if Lucifer was yelling at him instead.

Michael breaks the silence, in the end, demanding why Lucifer had only decided to show up now. Gabriel tunes them out. It’s no use trying to intervene, not when they’ve been having this same argument since Raph disappeared.

Until Gabriel realises that Lucifer’s stuttering.

“She looks—” Lucifer says. “She looks like Raph when—”

Gabriel’s breath hitches, choking on nothing. He doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want Lucifer to give words to the thought he knows is running through everyone’s minds. If no one says it, then it wouldn’t be real.

Gabriel looks up, finding his siblings staring at him. He didn’t realise he’d said any of it aloud.

“You didn’t tell me it was this bad,” Lucifer accuses, hiding his face behind his hands as he sinks into an ottoman.

Gabriel is about to defend himself, when Michael places a hand on his shoulder, shaking her head. “He didn’t know either,” she says.

“I— But she’ll be alright, won’t she?” Lucifer asks, and the desperate hope in his brother’s voice makes Gabriel want to cry all over again.

Gabriel runs a hand through Uriel’s curls, pursing his lips, unable to find an answer.

He didn’t need to. Lucifer had already walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Gabriel flinches, looking at Uriel to see if the noise had woken her up.

It didn’t.

“I’ll set him straight, don’t worry,” Michael sighs, her eyes staring into Gabriel’s as if to say it’s all going to be okay. “It’s not your fault.”

“But it is, isn’t it?” Gabriel says, furiously scrubbing at the tears that had begun to fall. “I was supposed to pick her up from the library, I shouldn’t have worked overtime today and left her alone, I—”

Michael shushes him, reaching up to wipe at a tear on the corner of his eye that he’d missed. “It’s not. It wasn’t. It’s ours, Gabe,” she whispers. “We’re the older siblings. We shouldn’t have let you shoulder all of this by yourself, little brother. I’m sorry.”

Gabriel shakes his head. It’s still his fault. If he’d only said something, then Raph wouldn’t have died, and the twins wouldn’t have left home. Uriel wouldn’t have grown up with only him for company. None of this would have happened if he’s just spoken up that night. It’s all his fault.

Gabriel bites the inside of his cheek, tasting blood.

Michael sighs, furrowing her eyebrows as she pats Gabriel’s cheek. “It’s not your fault, Gabby,” she repeats, attempting a half–hearted smile. “I’ll go get him. It’s going to be fine, alright?”

He nods, not trusting himself to say anything more.

Gabriel is sitting up with Uriel, still worryingly unconscious, wondering what was taking the twins so long to come back, when he hears shouting coming from outside the room.

That’s them. Michael’s voice is louder, angrier than when Lucifer first arrived, and Gabriel could barely hear Lucifer’s voice above hers at all. And there’s a third voice joining in, one which Gabriel can’t quite place but sounded familiar still.

How could they still be arguing at a time like this?

“I’ll be right back, Uri,” he whispers, smiling sadly before he leans down to place a gentle kiss on Uriel’s curls.

Gabriel opens the door, stepping out as he yells back at the twins.

“Could you two keep your argument down _for once?_ What did Lucifer do this time, anyway?”

The hallway falls silent, and Gabriel looks around then, finding four sets of eyes staring at him, among them…

“Why is Ezra Fell here?” Gabriel blurts out all of a sudden. Why does his least favourite employee always keep showing up when least wanted?

“Why don’t you ask our brother?” says Michael, her voice shaking, as she turns to glare at Lucifer again.

“Lu?” Gabriel says, trying not to sound too disappointed with his brother as he turns to him.

Lucifer shakes his head, refusing to make eye contact, as the third voice that Gabriel had heard previously calls out again.

“Not him, Gabe. _Me.”_

Gabriel turns his glance at the person standing behind Michael. Black clothing and a shock of shoulder–length red hair. Ezra Fell’s partner? Gabriel’s only ever seen him from behind whenever he picks Ezra Fell up after office hours, but now? The eyes behind the shades that refuse to look at him are unmistakable.

_“What—”_ Gabriel squeaks, his eyes widening.

It can’t be. How is he here?

Before he knows it, Gabriel is already surging forward, hitting his brother square in the jaw with his fist, sending his shades flying off into the air. He turns to Ezra Fell next, sure that he’s known the truth all along.

“Leave him out of this, Gabe,” _Raphael _says, rubbing a thumb at the point where Gabriel’s fist made contact. Gabriel doesn’t feel sorry about it. “He doesn’t know.”

_“It’s Gabriel,”_ Gabriel replies with a heaving breath. He doesn’t have a right to call him so familiarly anymore, not after what he did. “I _mourned _you. _Ten years,_ Raphael. Why are you here _now?”_

“Uri. What happened to her?” Raphael says, his voice hitching as if he couldn’t catch his breath. “Let me see her.”

_“Uriel_ is none of your business. Not anymore,” Gabriel hisses back. How dare he return only when it’s too late?

_“Please._ I’ll leave, just— just let me see her once,” his brother begs, the tears streaming down his face. “I— I wasn’t there before, let me be here now.”

_“Why?”_ Gabriel demands, refusing to budge. “What makes you _think_ she’ll even recognize you, if she wakes up? She was _seven _when you left.”

_If._ He’d said it. Why did he say it?

Gabriel’s legs give out, and he falls to his knees as he sobs, making him miss the rest of what was said.

When he glances up again, Raphael’s already left, and both of the twins are looking at him, unsure of what to do.

He pushes himself up from the floor, taking a shuddering breath, as he glares at Lucifer.

“How could you?” Gabriel asks. “Why wouldn’t you tell us?”

He knew. He must have. Who else would have called Raph here?

_“He asked me to!”_ Lucifer yells, and Gabriel fights the urge to flinch at how his brother had sounded like their father at that moment, as Lucifer continues with his flimsy excuses. “He asked me to, alright?”

Gabriel scoffs, if only to keep the sobs away. “He was always your favourite, wasn’t he? Always more important than the rest of us.”

“You know that’s not true, Gabe,” says Lucifer, shaking his head.

“Isn’t it?” Gabriel asks.

Why wouldn’t it be true? It’s always been Raph’s bedside that he sits by whenever he’s sick, always been Raph he’s shielding from the worst of their father, _always been Raph’s secrets he keeps, even if it meant the rest of them would think he’s dead._

“I better not see you around Uriel again,” he warns, making his way back into Uriel’s room, closing the door shut behind him.

Gabriel sinks into a chair, hiding his face behind his hands, as he lets out a groan of frustration.

The door clicks open, and Gabriel looks up, preparing to launch another tirade against his brothers, when he realises it’s Michael who’s entered the room instead.

Uriel still hasn’t woken up.

Michael heaves a weary sigh, dragging the other chair in the room so she could sit next to him, pulling him into her arms as he curls up in on himself, feeling like a petulant child again.

“I hate them,” Gabriel mumbles, chewing on his lip.

“No, you don’t,” Michael says back, as she makes Gabriel lean his head on her shoulder. “You’re just frustrated. There’s a difference.”

Gabriel’s breath hitches, shutting his eyes. “Why couldn’t Raph have just stayed dead? He had to come back and muddle everything up again.”

_“Gabriel Henry…”_ sighs Michael, but she doesn’t say anything else, so Gabriel doesn’t take it back.

Maybe he should have.

“Gabe,” Michael whispers harshly, nudging his head off her shoulder, making him jolt upright. “Gabriel, wake up.”

“Wh—” Gabriel jolts, sitting in an upright position. “Mika?” he says, scrunching up his face as he suppresses a yawn. When had he fallen asleep?

“I think something’s wrong,” says Michael, her face coming into focus.

_“What?”_ Gabriel blinks, now fully awake. “What do you— Uriel?”

“I don’t know, I just— I have a bad feeling,” Michael says, breathlessly. “Stay here, alright? I’ll go find someone.”

Gabriel nods, and Michael takes off, as Gabriel drags his chair closer to Uriel’s bedside.

“Please be okay,” whispers Gabriel, rubbing his hands over Uriel’s, trying to restore warmth to it. “Please.”

The door swings open again at that moment, just as the alarms start ringing all over the room all at once.

“Uriel?” Gabriel sobs. _“Uriel!”_

Michael is staring, wide–eyed, until something snaps inside and she runs towards him, trying to pry him away from Uriel.

“Gabe, come one, we have to leave,” Michael says, pulling him away.

_“No!”_ yells Gabriel, tugging his arm out of Michael’s grasp. “I don’t want— _I can’t—”_

“Gabriel, look at me,” Michael replies, cupping Gabriel’s cheeks in both hands to force him to meet her eyes. _“Look at me._ We need to leave. You have to let them help her.”

Gabriel shakes his head, but before he knows it, Michael has already managed to drag him outside, depositing him by the door as she sits next to him, pressing her forehead to her knees.

Gabriel bursts into tears.

“What if she—”

_“Don’t_ say it,” Michael interrupts, wrapping her arms around her legs as she uses her knees to prop up her head. “She’ll pull through, Gabe.”

“We can’t lose her,” says Gabriel, digging his nails into the fabric of his trousers, keeping his eyes glued to the floor.

“We’re not,” Michael replies, shaking her head. _“Shit, _I— I left my purse in there. We should tell them. Do you have your phone?”

Gabriel shakes his head in turn. The last thing he wants to do right now is to talk to his brothers.

They didn’t need to do it, as it turns out. The sound of footfalls makes Gabriel look up, his eyes meeting Lucifer’s, who is staring on in horror as what’s happening sinks in.

Lucifer scrambles back, and Gabriel thinks he’s about to run away on them again, when Lucifer skids to a stop right on the corner of the hallway, as Raph falls forward into their brother’s arms, like a marionette whose strings were cut off.

Gabriel pushes himself off the floor, almost on impulse, craning his neck to see Lucifer cradling Raph in his arms, desperately trying to shake their brother awake, when Michael suddenly makes a noise like a scream held back, pressing both hands to her lips.

He stares, his hands shaking at his sides as his pulse thunders in his ears, feeling like the terrified ten–year–old boy who couldn’t do anything other than wait for the ambulance, until Lucifer catches his eye and mouths at him to call for help.

He’s not that boy anymore.

Gabriel runs.


	19. Lavender

Gabriel runs as fast as his legs would take him, skittering to a stop in front of the nurses’ station, where blessedly a nurse is still on duty, looking up bewildered at Gabriel.

“Please, I—” says Gabriel, straining to catch his breath. “My brother, he— He needs help.”

“Calm down, sir,” the nurse says, immediately standing up. “Tell me what happened.”

“I just—” Gabriel replies, raking fingers through his hair. “He collapsed and I don’t—”

Gabriel takes a sharp breath, suddenly hit with a realisation.

He forgot. How did he forget?

“He has a heart condition,” Gabriel says more clearly, letting the air out of his tight chest. _“Please._ You have to help him.”

The nurse nods his head, reaching for a button mounted on the wall, before he and his colleague follow Gabriel back to the hallway beside Uriel’s room.

They find Lucifer still kneeling on the floor, clinging onto Raph for dear life. Lucifer flinches away the moment someone tries to take Raph away from his grasp, and Gabriel sniffles as he kneels down beside his brothers.

“Lu. Lucifer, _please,”_ Gabriel says, blinking away tears as he looks at Lucifer in the eye. “Let them help.”

“I can’t—” Lucifer shakes his head furiously, and it strikes Gabriel that he’s never seen his eldest brother so broken before this. “I can’t lose any of you _again.”_

“I know, big brother,” Gabriel says, placing his hand on Lucifer’s shoulder for support, hoping if the words would knock just a little bit of sense back into him. “But you have to let them help.”

Lucifer nods slowly, maintaining eye contact with Gabriel as he releases his hold on Raph, taking a shuddering breath as they watch Raph being wheeled away on a gurney. Gabriel helps Lucifer back on his feet, made more difficult by how much both of their hands are shaking.

“Lu?” Gabriel asks, when he notices Lucifer pick something off the floor.

Lucifer seemingly doesn’t hear him, examining the item in his hand more closely still. It catches the light, and as the glint hits Gabriel’s eyes, he recognises what it is.

Ezra Fell’s ring. Gabriel had sneered at it when he arrived at the office this morning. He must have returned it to Raph, then.

Gabriel feels the ice in his heart melt just a little bit more.

He blinks, and in the next moment, Lucifer has already sprinted off.

_“Lucifer!”_ Gabriel yells after his brother. “Where are you going?”

Lucifer doesn’t reply, disappearing as he turns around the corner, and Gabriel sighs loudly into his hands.

He just hopes this would end well.

Gabriel makes his way back towards Michael, sitting beside her in silence as he reaches out to hold her hand, but Michael flinches away, trembling as she curls up in on herself.

“Mika?” Gabriel says, his voice hoarse.

“I can’t—” Michael shakes her head, refusing to look at him. “Why is this happening again?”

Gabriel keeps his hands to himself this time, sighing. “I don’t know,” Gabriel says, as the adrenaline fades and the feeling of helplessness starts to creep up on him again. “But we’ll get through this like we did the last time, won’t we?”

Michael doesn’t answer him.

It feels like an eternity later when the door to Uriel’s room opens again, and Gabriel scrambles to his feet. Michael looks up, hearing him, but she stays sitting on the floor as a doctor steps out from the room.

“Are you her family?” the doctor asks.

“Yes,” Gabriel replies breathlessly. “Is she—”

“She’s stable,” the doctor confirms, and beside him, Gabriel hears Michael breath a deep sigh of relief. “But we’ll have to keep her under observation to make sure the tamponade doesn’t reoccur.”

Gabriel nods, pursing his lips. “Thank you. _Thank you.”_

“Excuse me, then,” the doctor replies, smiling back reassuringly before she takes her leave.

When the doctor’s out of sight, Gabriel turns back to Michael, weeping still as she stares into nothingness. He crouches down to his sister’s eye level, smiling sadly as he looks at her, before Gabriel pulls Michael into his arms, knocking the wind out of her.

“She’s alright, Mye,” Gabriel whispers, as Michael continues to sob in his arms. “Just like you said. _She’s alright.”_

Michael shakes her head, sniffling, as Gabriel places a hand to the back of it. “But Raph—”

_Of course, she’d be thinking about Raph right now,_ Gabriel thinks, before pushing the thought aside. “I’ll call Lu. I’ll ask him,” he says instead. “But we should go back inside.”

“I don’t _want—”_ Michael says, raising her voice as she struggles against Gabriel’s grip. “I can’t stand seeing her like that, what if—”

Gabriel lets her go, if only so he can see Michael eye–to–eye again. “She’s fine, Mika. _Please,_ let’s just go inside,” he pleads, unable to keep the quivering out of his voice. _“Please.”_

Michael avoids his eyes, looking to the side as she continues to shake. “Help me up,” she says, sighing aloud.

“What?” Gabriel says, blinking.

“I said help me up, Gabriel,” repeats Michael, still refusing to look at him.

“I— Alright,” Gabriel says, grasping her hand to pull her up, letting Michael lean on his shoulder as he opens the door.

When Michael’s settled into an uneasy sleep, her head resting on Gabriel’s shoulder as she keeps her grip on Uriel’s hand, Gabriel fishes his phone out of his pocket, dialling Lucifer’s number from memory.

Lucifer doesn’t pick up.

Gabriel tries to ignore the yawning pit in his stomach, chewing at his lip as he fires off text messages to his eldest brother, praying it would be enough for Lucifer to pick up when Gabriel tries to call again.

The phone barely gets past the first ring when Lucifer finally picks up, and Gabriel hears a shuddering breath coming from the other end of the line, before it is followed up with the sound of his brother’s voice, calling his name.

“She’s fine, Lu,” Gabriel says, clearing his throat as he steals a glance at Uriel’s peaceful expression. “Uriel’s alright.”

Lucifer sighs, but doesn’t make another sound apart from the barely audible weeping, that Gabriel’s stomach does another backflip, fearing the worst.

“How’s—” Gabriel says, choking back on a sob. “How is Raph?”

“I don’t know. _God,_ I don’t know,” Lucifer replies, and Gabriel flinches at the feedback that results from something reverberating on the other end of the line. “Will you come here?”

“Sorry,” whispers Gabriel, as Michael fidgets in her sleep. “I can’t. Mika won’t stop crying, I can’t leave her or Uriel right now.”

Lucifer takes a shuddering breath. “That’s— That’s alright, Gabe. Take care of our sisters, will you?”

“Lu?” Gabriel calls out, biting at the inside of his cheek as he knits his eyebrows together.

“Yeah, Gabe?”

“Tell me if anything changes,” Gabriel replies. “I’m sorry,” he adds, hurriedly ending the call before he could start crying again.

Lucifer calls again a half–hour later, waking Michael up and chasing away the drowsiness from Gabriel himself.

“Who is it?” asks Michael drowsily, grimacing against the lighting in the room as she sits up straight.

“Lu, probably,” Gabriel replies, holding back a yawn. “I’ll get it,” he adds, grabbing the phone from where he’s placed it on the table nearby.

Michael stares at him, following Gabriel with her eyes as he taps at the screen and places the phone against his ear.

“Lucifer?” Gabriel says, his voice still thick with drowsiness.

“Gabe? Could you…” Lucifer replies, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Could you meet me outside the room? I know Michael doesn’t want me in there right now.”

“You know she’s not—”

“Just do it,” interrupts Lucifer, and Gabriel could just imagine the scowl on his brother’s face right now. “Please.”

Gabriel looks back at Michael who’s still staring at him, and she catches his eye, raising her eyebrow at him.

“What does he want?” she asks.

“He wants me to meet him outside,” replies Gabriel. “I don’t— Should I?”

“He didn’t say anything about Raph?” Michael asks again, rubbing her thumb over the back of Uriel’s hand.

Gabriel shakes his head, chewing at his lip.

“Go to him,” Michael sighs. “I’ll stay right here with Uriel, don’t worry.”

Gabriel hesitates, still chewing at his lip, not really wanting to abandon his sisters right now.

“It’s going to be alright, Gabe,” says Michael, smiling thin–lipped at him. “Just go with Lu. Ask him how Raph is.”

Gabriel nods slowly, sparing one last glance at Michael and Uriel before leaving through the door.

Gabriel finds Lucifer leaning on the wall next to the door when he opens it, tapping his foot impatiently against the floor as he carries a bundle of papers in his hand.

“Did Michael say anything?” Lucifer asks before Gabriel could have a chance to greet him.

“No, she… She only told me to ask about Raph,” says Gabriel, looking up expectantly at his brother.

Lucifer backs up against the wall more, as if he wants to disappear from this conversation altogether, and Gabriel feels his stomach drop.

“Well?” Gabriel asks quietly, absentmindedly tugging at the folds of his cuffs.

“It’s bad, Gabby,” Lucifer confesses, sighing as his gaze falls on the floor, as if using Gabriel’s childhood nickname would soften the blow for him. “They’d almost called it, I— I should’ve checked up on him more often, maybe it wouldn’t have come to this if I did.”

“Where is he now?” Gabriel asks, curling his hand into a fist and digging his nails into his palm.

“Surgery. They need to fix his valve before it causes any problems again. And they’re still running tests to see if—” Lucifer pauses, hesitating as he weighs his next words carefully. “If there’s anything else that needs fixing.”

_“Oh,”_ says Gabriel, looking up at his brother again. “Did you need me for something then?”

“It’s just— I have to fill out these forms but… I can’t concentrate long enough to do it properly,” Lucifer says, sighing as he gestures to the bundle of papers he’s carrying before he shoves them in Gabriel’s arms. “Will you do it for me? Please?”

Gabriel takes them, wondering if this is how all of his interns felt whenever he unexpectedly dumps paperwork on them. “Alright,” he says instead. “Are you going back to Raph then?”

“I don’t know,” replies Lucifer, shrugging. “I don’t even know when they’ll finish. Maybe I’ll just wait in the lobby.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Gabriel asks. “You could stay here if you want. I don’t think Mika would mind too much.”

Lucifer sighs, already turning to leave. “No thanks, I’m not in the mood to have another argument after…” Lucifer trails off, shaking his head. “You’re gonna submit the documents downstairs when you’re done?”

Gabriel nods, turning the knob open. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” replies Lucifer, waving his hand as he walks away.

Gabriel’s already stepped inside the room when he realises he has no idea what to write as his brother’s personal information.

Trying to contact people was the hard part. Mum still hasn’t picked up, no matter how many times Gabriel’s rang her phone. She shouldn’t hear about this from anyone else, especially not from the media. She can’t possibly still be on a flight. Where is she?

Gabriel stares at his phone, wondering if he should just keep trying, when Michael hisses a colourful string of words next to him, startling Gabriel enough to make his grasp on the phone almost slip.

“What’s wrong?” Gabriel asks, shifting in his chair to face her.

“Phone’s dead,” mutters Michael, leaning on the backrest of her chair as she folds her arms over her chest, still clutching her phone. “I forgot to call Bee.”

“Do you need me to call her?” Gabriel says, grasping at anything he can do to help his siblings, sneaking a glance at his phone to see if their mother had picked up this time.

She still hadn’t.

Michael hums, pursing her lips. “Yes, please,” she replies after a while, sighing.

Gabriel attempts a smile, dropping the next attempt to call Mum in favour of scrolling down to Bee’s name in his contacts list. “I’ll handle it,” Gabriel says, shifting in his seat again. “You should get some sleep.”

“I shouldn’t,” replies Michael, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Not when you’ve barely had any sleep either.”

“It’s alright. We’re just gonna have to take turns until Mum gets here,” Gabriel says, forcing his smile to stay on as he watches Michael blink her eyes sleepily. “Whenever that is,” he adds, shrugging, just as the phone call to Bee connects. “I should probably go take this outside.”

“Tell her not to worry about me,” says Michael, punctuating her sentence with a yawn. “And that I might not make it to the next hearing.”

“I will,” he replies, already halfway to the door. “Please get some sleep.”

Gabriel puts his phone to his ear as the door clicks open, psyching himself up to a rant that’s sure to follow.

“Gabriel Henry Christchurch,” Bee says, all chillingly ice–cold, before Gabriel could even say anything. “Where is your sister?”

“You missed Mountbatten,” Gabriel sighs automatically. “Listen. We’re at Addenbrooke’s right now. Can you pick her up?”

“What happened?” asks Bee, suddenly becoming serious. “Who’s hurt?”

“Uriel. I— She was mugged. It’s been a rough night,” says Gabriel, leaning against the wall. “Can you drive Mika back to the manor?”

_“Shit,”_ Bee curses sharply, followed by the faint clacking of car keys. “Is she alright? I’m on my way.”

“Still asleep, but she’s alright.” Gabriel frowns, exhaling loudly. “And… there’s something else.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here,” Gabriel says, biting at his lip. “Just drive safely,” he adds, ending the call before Bee could ask further.

There’s a knock on the door as the first rays of sunlight creep in through the windows, and Gabriel drowsily turns his gaze towards both his sisters, as Michael sleeps with her head next to Uriel’s and her arms wrapped over their youngest sister. 

There’s that knock again, more insistent this time. It couldn’t be Mum, she’d finally returned his call and said she wouldn’t be here for another hour or two. So who could it be?

Gabriel sighs, his joints groaning as he gets up from his chair and opens the door. Bee greets him on the other side, glaring at Gabriel with her arms crossed over her chest as only she could when forced to wake up at the crack of dawn.

“How’s Uriel?” Bee asks as Gabriel closes the door behind him.

“Hasn’t woken up yet, but she looks better than she did last night,” Gabriel sighs, still unable to shake the memory from his mind. “Mika’s fallen asleep, I’ll wake her up before you leave.”

“So,” Bee says, raising an eyebrow as she stares at Gabriel as if he’s someone she’s grilling on the witness stand. “What’s this _something else_ you wanted to talk about?”

“Erm.” Gabriel gulps, backing up against the wall. “It’s— Well. It’s about Raph.”

“We all know the anniversary’s coming up,” Bee sighs, dropping the intense scrutinizing gaze. “Are you cancelling the memorial this year until Uriel’s better?”

“No, that’s not— That’s not it,” says Gabriel, chewing at his lip as he turns his gaze towards the floor. “He’s alive,” he admits, the word _barely_ remaining unsaid.

_“What?”_ Bee breathes out, her eyes widening as she continues to stare at him. “You know that’s not a good joke, Gabriel.”

“It’s not,” Gabriel says with a shake of his head, dimly realising he’s been hyperventilating again. “I— He’s here, actually.”

“If I find out you’re lying…” warns Bee, advancing towards him, poking her pointer finger at his chest to make the rest of the threat clear.

“I’m not going to lie about Raph, Bee,” Gabriel replies. _I have too much guilt for that,_ he almost adds. “He’s in CCU with Lu. See for yourself,” he says instead.

Bee narrows her eyes, her brows furrowing. “Lu knew? All this time?”

“Apparently,” Gabriel sighs with a disapproving twist of his lip. “And he didn’t bother to tell the rest of us.”

_“Wait,”_ Bee says, as she steps away from Gabriel and tilts her head. “You said CCU. There’s something else to this story. Is he ill again?”

Gabriel adjusts the strap of the wristwatch chaffing against his wrist. “He came for Uriel. I think— I think we were too harsh about letting him see her,” he says, trying to pick a spot on the floor to focus his eyes on. “And then he just collapsed. Right there, near where the corridor turns.”

“I guess he still doesn’t take care of himself, huh?” Bee says, huffing audibly. “You think I should go see him?”

“It’s your choice.”

“Well, have you?” Bee asks back.

“I don’t—” says Gabriel, looking at her. “Maybe when Mum’s here.”

“Suit yourself,” Bee replies, shrugging. “I should probably tell Mika first that I’m here, shouldn’t I?”

“No, let her sleep,” Gabriel says, running a hand through his hair. “I’m worried tonight’s exhausted her too much, she nearly collapsed when I was leading her back inside Uriel’s room.”

“I _told_ her not to stay up late going through that testimony,” mutters Bee, clicking her tongue. “I’ll talk to her later. I need to go yell at your brothers first.”

Gabriel is startled into laughter, but it only comes out as a strangled snort. “Good luck with that.”

“How could you forgive them?” Gabriel snaps, before their mother could even fully close the door behind her after she’d stayed the entire day in his brother’s room.

“Sweetheart…” Mum says, frowning as she steps closer to Gabriel, cupping his cheek with her hand.

Gabriel places his hand over their mother’s, prying it off his face. “They lied to us, Mum. Or did you forget what Raph faking his death did to us? To _me?”_ he asks, his voice breaking.

“I haven’t. Not really,” Mum says, staring at him as if he was an erring child. “What they’d done was wrong, but I can’t be angry at your brother right now, not with how ill he is.”

_“But that’s always his excuse, isn’t it?”_ Gabriel yells, turning his back to her. “Raph can’t ever do anything wrong in your eyes because he’s always ill.”

_“Gabriel!”_

Gabriel grits his teeth, daring the tears to start flowing. “I’m so tired of this, Mum! I thought this was going to stop when Raph went away, but no. Apparently not.”

“That’s not true, Gabriel,” their mother says, placing a hand on his hair.

“Isn’t it?” Gabriel mutters, still refusing to face her. “Because it doesn’t feel like it.”

“Is that really how you feel?”

Gabriel scoffs, biting at the inside of his cheek. “You’ve never had time for me, Mum, not after Uriel was born and Raph got sick.”

“I’m sorry,” Mum whispers. “I thought you understood.”

“I was _ten,_ Mum,” Gabriel replies, shaking his head.

“I know,” she says. “And I’m sorry I expected too much from you. Will you look at me, darling?”

Gabriel turns around without saying a word, still frowning.

“Well, Gabriel?” Mum asks, offering a conciliatory smile. “Do you forgive me?”

“I’m still thinking about it,” mumbles Gabriel, staring at the floor.

Mum sighs, and Gabriel lets her pull him closer, placing his head on her shoulder as their mother brushes her fingers through his hair. “You do know I love you, right?” she says.

“Maybe.”

The sound of a ringing phone breaks the relative silence of the evening, jolting Gabriel from what little sleep he’s managed to scrounge up. It can’t have been his phone, the battery’s already been drained and he hasn’t found the time to recharge it yet.

“Mum?” Gabriel asks, his voice still thick with sleep. “Was that yours?”

“Huh?” Their mother blinks, as if she’s only just woken up herself, rummaging through her purse when the ringing persists. “Oh, it’s— It’s Alex.”

Gabriel furrows his brows, slipping into thought. Why would Lucifer be calling when he’s just across from the hall and could come in here himself?

Unless—

Mum gasps just then. Gabriel hadn’t realised she’s already picked up.

“Mum?” says Gabriel, his voice impossibly small. “Mum, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Raphael,” their mother replies, clearing her throat as she covers the phone’s microphone with her hand. “He’s, um… He’s in cardiac arrest.”

_“Oh,”_ Gabriel says, shutting his eyes as he breathes out slowly through his mouth, sinking back into his chair.

“Gabriel?”

Gabriel shakes his head, biting at his lip until he can taste blood. “It’s alright, Mum,” he says shakily. “I’m fine.”

“Do you want to go to them?” their mother asks. “I can stay with your sister.”

“No, Mum, I can’t—” Gabriel stares at the tiles on the floor, trying to even out his breathing. “I’ll just be in the way if I’m there.”

“You won’t be, sweetheart,” Mum says, shaking her head in turn. “Alex needs someone to stay with him, just… just in case.”

_Just in case._

Gabriel didn’t need to be told what she’d meant by it.

“Go on, Gabriel,” Mum says, nodding her head slowly. “I’ll be right here with Uriel, whatever happens.”

“You’re not coming?” Gabriel asks, feeling stupid with his question.

“I don’t—” their mother hesitates, shaking her head. “I’ll just stay here. Just— Just tell me what happens.”

Gabriel nods slowly, chewing at his lip as he stares at their mother, before he runs out the door.

Gabriel finds Lucifer sitting on the floor, curled up on himself with his face hidden behind the arms he’d placed on his knees. He doesn’t dare to look inside Raph’s room as he walks closer and sits next to his brother, keeping some space between them.

“What happened?” Gabriel asks, keeping his voice down to not startle his brother.

Lucifer doesn’t look up, and Gabriel thinks maybe his brother just hasn’t heard him, when Lucifer exhales aloud.

“I was sleeping,” Lucifer says simply, curling a hand into a fist. “And then, I don’t know. I think he got worse when I wasn’t looking.”

Gabriel places a hand on his brother’s shoulder, looking at him sadly. “Lu, you know that’s not—”

“It is, Gabe,” Lucifer says, shrugging away Gabriel’s hand as he shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have asked him to come back, maybe things wouldn’t be like this if I didn’t.”

“He’d have learnt about Uriel in the news,” Gabriel points out, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And then how would that have looked?”

“It’s not just that,” says Lucifer, heaving a heavy sigh. “Last night, he… His fiancé broke up with him. Raph’s lost everything, I think— I think he’s giving up.”

“So he’s leaving us again,” Gabriel says, his voice sounding hollow even to his own ears. “I shouldn’t have— Why did I say it? I should never have said it, I—”

“Said what, Gabe?” Lucifer asks, looking up at him with watery eyes.

“I–I said—” Gabriel replies, unable to stop himself from shaking. “I told Mika— I said Raph should’ve just stayed dead. I didn’t mean it, I— Why did I say it?”

Lucifer sighs, closing his eyes as he leans back against the wall, and for a moment, Gabriel fears that his eldest brother will lash out at him.

“Do you remember when you were ten?” Lucifer asks instead, and the question catches Gabriel off–guard.

“Which part?” Gabriel asks in return, blinking away tears.

“When I promised I’d take you to visit Raph in the hospital but then I didn’t until a week later,” replies Lucifer, biting at his lip. “You said you were arguing the night before he fell ill, that you told Raph you wanted him to disappear. He’d slipped into a coma then, that’s why I didn’t take you to see him.”

Gabriel continues staring, wide-eyed. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because we didn’t want you to blame yourself for what happened back then,” Lucifer says. “And you are not going to blame yourself for what’s happening now. You say things, that doesn’t mean they happen because you did so.”

“You should take your own advice,” mutters Gabriel, looking away. “Don’t blame yourself for Raph’s own choices.”

The door to the room opens, revealing the doctor who steps out and looks at both of them. Gabriel watches as Lucifer scrambles to stand, tugging at his clothes to make them less wrinkled, leading the way to the other side of the corridor as the doctor explains Raph’s condition to him. Gabriel tunes the conversation out, choosing to curl up on himself and not think about how worse off Raph could be right now.

“Gabriel, are you coming?” Lucifer asks, turning back to look at Gabriel.

Gabriel looks up, hearing the sound of his name being called, staring at Lucifer as if he’s grown an extra head. “What?” he asks, tilting his head.

Lucifer smiles thinly. “I asked if you were coming in to see Raph, Gabriel.”

“Oh, I—” Gabriel hesitates, picking at the link on the cuff of his shirt. “I don’t know, I— Should I be there? Would he want me there?”

“You’re his brother, Gabriel,” Lucifer says, placing a hand over Gabriel’s hair. “Of course he’d want you there.”

“Okay,” Gabriel says, nodding as he pushes himself off the floor. “Okay.”

Gabriel can’t stop pacing. Uriel’s supposed to be taken off the sedatives today, and her doctor had assured him she’s out of danger and that it’s safe to try and wake her up now, but _still._ What if something goes wrong? He doesn’t think his sanity could take any more surprises. 

“Stop pacing, dear,” their mother scolds, following his footsteps around the room with her eyes.

“I _know,_ Mum, but…” Gabriel says, glancing at Uriel again. “Don’t you think it’s taking too long for the sedatives to wear off? Shouldn’t she be awake by now?”

“Give it time, Gabriel,” Mum sighs, rolling her eyes. “She’s been under for almost two days, of course, it’s going to take a while.”

Gabriel shakes his head, still staring at his sister, when he notices the slightest twitch of a finger.

“Uriel?” Gabriel says, immediately sitting down to hold his sister’s hand. “Uri, can you hear me?”

His sister furrows her eyebrows, making a barely–audible groan.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, squeezing Uriel’s hand. “Come on, wake up.”

Uriel opens her eyes.


	20. Syringa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the tags. Also, last flashback chapter, we swear. Although technically only half of this is actually a flashback.

Uriel doesn’t remember much about her brother.

What she _does_ remember about him are mostly good things. She remembers toddling around after him in their greenhouse, watching as her brother waters the heirloom roses, remembers the sound of his voice, warm and kind, as he winks at Uriel and yells at the plants, louder and louder, until they’d both run out of breath from laughing.

She remembers spending her days at Raphael’s side, her hand held in his while he takes her for walks around their estate, letting her babble at the wildflowers as they admire the landscape. She remembers the warm summers spent outside, chasing after butterflies while Raphael lounges on a picnic blanket, who would sometimes lift his tinted glasses to smile and look at her.

But Uriel also remembers some of the bad. The screaming matches with their father, always followed up with the slamming of doors. She remembers how their other siblings would take her to visit Raph in the hospital, where the sharp, clinical scent of the air hung heavy in her nostrils. Uriel remembers the way her brother would lay in bed and not come out of his room for whole weekends, and how Lu or Mika would have to bring food into his room for him.

Uriel remembers how once, she’d snuck into Raphael’s room while their nanny wasn’t looking, crawling into bed next to her brother and placing her head against his shoulder.

“Raph?” she’d asked quietly, one small hand tucked under her chin. “Why don’t you want to go out? Are you mad at us?”

Raphael sighs, and rolls over to face her. His glasses are still on, but he shifts them to let them rest on the top of his head.

“Uriel,” he whispers with a tired smile, taking her hand to hold as Uriel pouts at him, her eyes wide. “It’s nothing you’ve done, dove. I’m just not feeling well.”

She nods and lays back down on the bed, tucking her head under Raphael’s chin. One of his hands comes up to stroke through her hair, fiddling with the ends of one of her pigtails.

“I’m sorry,” she says into his chest, gripping the fabric of his sweater in her small hands.

He shushes her, humming a quiet melody. “It’s okay, dove,” he replies, holding her close. “It’s okay.”

Uriel doesn’t have time to dwell on that, though, because it’s coming up to nearly eleven at night and she needs to get home, especially as Gabriel wouldn’t be able to pick her up from the library tonight. There’s only so much studying she can take in at this hour, pouring through book upon book about botany, before her eyes are drooping with sleep.

It’s been a long week for all of them, with Michael diving headfirst into work and acting more on edge than usual and Gabriel quick to snap about anything. Uriel had tried to keep herself in a good mood, even texting Lucifer when he’d arrived from LA earlier that day, but still, the weight of the approaching anniversary weighs heavy on her heart. These are the days where Uriel feels the loss of her brother more acutely, even if she doesn’t quite remember him as the rest of her family does.

Uriel hears a sudden noise behind her, and she stops walking, turning to look around in the dark, but she sees nothing. The tube station is only another block or so away, so Uriel decides that she should just keep walking. If she books it, she can make the next stop and be home by midnight.

She turns back to her course, setting a brisk pace, but Uriel still can’t help but get the feeling that she’s being watched, and as her bag bounces against her side, she resists the urge to break into a jog.

Uriel’s nearly to the steps to the station, when she’s pulled off her feet and dragged to a nearby alley, thrown against a wall.

“I want your bag,” a gruff voice says, as a knife is pointed at Uriel’s throat.

Uriel swallows, making a show of moving to take her bag off. But instead, she reaches for her lanyard in her back pocket and pulls the defence spray Mika had gifted her last Christmas, aiming and spraying her attacker in the face.

Her attacker yells, wiping at his eyes and smearing the bright green dye on his hands as Uriel takes off in a sprint. She’s almost out of the alley when someone else grabs the bag from her and pulls her back, seizing her throat and shoving her to the wall. A second man, older and broader than the first, grins menacingly back at her.

“That wasn’t very smart, baby girl,” he snarls at her, drawing his own knife.

Uriel struggles against the grip on her throat, wheezing and kicking against her assailant. She can’t reach her phone; if she moves her hands away from her throat, she’s sure the man holding her will crush her windpipe.

He slices the strap of her bag, kicking it over to him so Uriel can’t get to it. When he leans down to examine it, she manages to throw her legs forward with enough force to kick him in the knees, forcing him backwards and away from him. Uriel coughs, gasping lungfuls of air as she starts to stagger towards the light at the end of the alley.

The exit’s within feet of her when the knife sinks into her lower back.

Uriel wasn’t sure what being stabbed felt like. She’d seen plenty of TV medical dramas, she and Mika always watched Grey’s Anatomy together every week, even if her sister had to Skype in, she’d heard accounts from survivors on the news, but there’s nothing that really comes close to describing the white–hot pain of the blade as it goes in and then slides out again with a sickening noise.

Uriel would like to think that she could make some quick quip at the man who stabbed her — the same one she’d sprayed, she realizes when she manages to turn around on pure instinct — but all she manages is a barely–audible whimper before the knife is in between her ribs. That one hurts more, she notes, her mouth agape as she gazes down at the handle of the knife sticking out from her cardigan.

There’s a gasp from across the street, and a yell to call the police. 

_“Shit,”_ the elder one curses as he shoves his partner out of the way, grabbing the knife and looking around as he jabs it into Uriel once more before pocketing it.

Uriel falls to the ground, her head bouncing on the hard stone.

“We have to get out of here. _Fuck,_ we can’t get charged with murder,” one of them says as the two take off in the opposite direction, not even bothering to take her bag with them.

_All this for nothing,_ Uriel thinks bitterly, her mouth set into a thin line. Her hands move over one of the wounds, steadily seeping blood, and she cries out when she tries to put pressure on it. There are footsteps coming towards her, but it hurts to move her head. There’s a face suddenly hovering over hers, their lips moving, but her heartbeat is pounding so loudly in her ears that she can’t focus on what’s being said.

She drifts in and out then, trying to stay awake at the pleads of the strangers around her. Suddenly everything is too loud and bright, flashing lights everywhere and careful hands lifting her up. She recognizes them as paramedics despite the fog in her mind, their lips moving and asking her questions. She wants to respond but all she can hear is a high–pitched ringing in her ears as they get her into the ambulance. One of them has her bag, rifling through it. She makes a choked noise at the back of her throat, wanting the bag close to her.

The pin that used to be Raphael’s is still on the strap, catching the light, and Uriel blinks, her sight growing dim at the edges. At least she can see her brother again.

The ambulance does a sudden lurch forwards, and then everything falls dark.

Uriel wakes up, her entire body sore and aching as the steady noise of machines whir around her. There’s a firm grip on her hand, and when she looks down, she recognizes Gabriel’s hand holding hers.

She wants to say something, but when she tries, she’s met with unyielding plastic in her mouth, and her eyes widen with panic as her hand tightens around her brother’s.

“Oh, wait— just hang on a minute, I’ll call a nurse,” Gabriel sputters out, hitting the call button at the side of the bed. “They said once you woke up, they’d take the breathing tube out.”

Uriel slowly blinks a yes, taking a deep breath to quell the initial panic. She turns her head, startling when she sees their mother — she’d been out of the country the last Uriel remembers, not due back until the anniversary and memorial service. Uriel reaches a hand out for her, which she eagerly receives and holds with both of her own.

“Oh, baby,” she says quietly, kissing the back of Uriel’s hand, then touches it to her cheek. “I’m so glad you’re awake.”

Uriel tugs her lips into a smile, blinking back at their mother. She might not be able to speak right now, but she could still find other ways to tell her family that she’s alright.

She’s only awake a few minutes as soon she’s being pulled out of sleep by a familiar voice.

“Uriel? Wake up, dear.”

Someone is squeezing at her hand, and Uriel groggily opens her eyes, Gabriel’s face coming into focus as she does, looking at her from the side of the bed with a kind, exhausted smile. There’s a nurse standing by beside him, wearing a reassuring expression that doesn’t really feel reassuring at all.

“I’m going to take the tube out now,” the nurse tells her. “When I do, you’re going to need to cough for me, alright?”

Uriel nods, her hand tightening in Gabriel’s. The nurse counts down, Uriel takes a breath, and the breathing tube is pulled out in one smooth motion while Uriel coughs and sputters in its absence. The nurse gives her a thorough check–over, fitting her with a nasal cannula, making sure she’s breathing alright and that her lungs are in proper shape, before she leaves to get her something to eat.

“How are you feeling?” Mum asks her, opening and passing her the bottle of water that was on the rolling tray at the side of the hospital bed.

Uriel takes a few sips, ignoring the way her hands shake around the plastic bottle. “‘M okay,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Sore. What happened?”

“You needed surgery,” Gabriel tells her, squeezing her hand. “They said it was touch and go for a while.”

“You nearly di—”

_“Mum—”_

“She deserves to _know_,” Mum snaps back momentarily before she takes a deep breath, rubbing her eyes.

“Sorry, Mum,” Uriel automatically says, looking down. “That was stupid of me to get mugged.”

Their mother runs a hand through Uriel’s hair, sighing. After a minute, she sits back up with a watery smile on her face. “Sweetheart, that wasn’t your fault. We’re just happy you’re okay.”

Uriel picks at the lint on the blanket, still not daring to look up. “How long was I out?” she asks.

“About a few days,” Gabriel replies for their mother, his hands hidden behind his back that Uriel’s sure he’s wringing them again. “And it’s my fault I didn’t pick you up from the library that night, really. I should be the one who’s sorry.”

“What? No!” says Uriel, her head snapping up so she could stare incredulously at her brother. “I shouldn’t have stayed there that late in the first place.”

A thought suddenly enters her mind, and Uriel’s eyes widen in realisation.

_“Oh,”_ she says, chewing at her lip. “I missed the memorial, didn’t I?”

Mum opens her mouth as if to reply, but Gabriel speaks out first. “We’ve cancelled it this year. You didn’t miss anything, don’t worry.”

“But it’s—”

“It’s alright,” Mum says, reaching over to plant a kiss on Uriel’s forehead. “Your brother’s going to be so glad to find out you’re alright.”

“Br— Luci’s here?” asks Uriel, blinking. “Where is he?”

“Lucifer _was_ here,” Gabriel replies, a little too hastily that Uriel thinks there’s something more to it. “But now he’s at the manor catching up on sleep.”

“What about Mika?” Uriel says, knitting her eyebrows together. “They didn’t have another fight again, did they?”

“Not _quite._ It’s a long story,” sighs Gabriel, grimacing. “She’s… here. Somewhere. She’ll come back in a bit. You should go back to sleep.”

Uriel turns to their mother, pleading at her with a look to explain why Gabriel’s acting off, but their mother only sighs, brushing her thumb over the back of Uriel’s hand.

“Listen to your brother, Uriel,” their mother says. “He’s right. You need to get your strength back up.”

Uriel frowns at her family’s non–answers, shifting in bed as she closes her eyes. “You’ll tell me what happened?”

“We will, sweetheart,” assures Mum. “But not right now. You need to rest.”

She drifts in and out, catching bits of hushed arguments, ones she’s sure her family didn’t mean for her to hear, but still, Uriel is sure she hasn’t got the full story.

It comes to a head at some point, though if it was hours or days later, she wasn’t sure. Lucifer and Gabriel are yelling at each other from across the room, waking Uriel up from the light sleep she’d managed.

“—as a right to know and you know that, Gabriel!”

“Oh, that’s a bit rich coming from you, isn’t it? _You’re the one who put us in this mess in the first place.”_

“Know what?” Uriel asks, just as she opens her eyes. All sets of eyes turn on her, but neither of her brothers speaks. “I have a right to know what, Lu?”

“It’s about Raphael,” Lucifer sighs, as Gabriel shoots him a murderous glare.

Uriel tenses, her hands gripping at the thin hospital blanket. “What about him? Is Mum mad I messed things up for the memorial this week?”

_“No—!_ I mean, it’s not— that’s not it,” Gabriel says, rushing to reassure her. “It’s—”

“He’s alive, Uriel,” Lucifer finally spits out. “Has been this whole time.”

All of the breath is knocked out of her chest, as her eyes dart between her brothers. “What?” Uriel asks in a small voice. “Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”

Lucifer and Gabriel exchange a look. Finally, Gabriel clears his throat, turning back to Uriel with an expression that makes him look as if he’s passing stones.

“He’s not… Raph’s not well right now, Uri,” says Gabriel, biting at his lip as he places a hand over hers. “But he’d be here right now if he could.”

“What happened?” she asks, chewing at her lip and dreading the answer. “How bad is it?”

Lucifer sighs, setting his lips into a thin smile. “You remember all those times he was ill before? It’s worse than any of those, Uri.”

“Is he—”

“We don’t know that yet,” Lucifer replies before Gabriel has a chance to do so.

“I—” Uriel hesitates, as she tries to swallow with a dry throat. “Where is he then?”

“At the other end of this floor,” says Gabriel, shooting Lucifer another glare before he continues. “We’ve been… Erm, we’ve been alternating between the two of you.”

“I want to see him,” Uriel says, looking down at her hands, curling them up into fists that grasp the blankets once again.

“You don’t want that,” says Gabriel, placing a hand over Uriel’s and clutching it tightly. “Not in the way he is right now, Uri.”

“I _want_ to see Raphael,” Uriel insists, snatching her hand away as she stares intently into her brother’s eyes.

Lucifer sighs, squeezing his eyes shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alright,” he says, finally. “We’ll take you to him.”

When Uriel is wheeled into the room, Raphael — Crowley, now, as Lucifer had informed her on the walk — is lying down on an angle in the hospital bed, tubes and wires around him like snakes. Lucifer was right; it’s the worst she’s ever seen him look, even in the pictures that she’s seen in albums from when he was hospitalized in secondary and uni. His hair is cut short, though, much shorter than she’s ever seen him wear it, and his freckles are so much more prominent now than she remembers them to be. It’s almost like he truly is a new person, so far removed from the sibling she barely remembers.

But he’s still her sibling. Still similar enough that she remembers him. 

She startles when she realizes he’s not alone in the room, a short–statured blond seated next to him, holding her brother’s hand. It’s not until he turns to look at her does she recognize him.

“You were—”

“The girl we saw during Pride? You’re— _Oh.”_ It seems to hit the man then. “You’re his younger sister, the one he came here to see.”

“And you must be his… fiancé?”

“Something like that,” he supplies, eyes downcast. “Ezra Fell, if no one’s told you. I heard you were quite hurt. Are you… feeling alright?”

Uriel hums a moment, trying not to fidget awkwardly as uncomfortable silence drowns the room. “I’ve been better,” she says after a moment. “Not very often that your insides are almost your outsides, you know?”

Lucifer halfheartedly taps her shoulder in a scold, despite the corner of his mouth tugging up at the cheek in her remark. Ezra laughs at it though, if a bit sadly, before looking back to Crowley.

“I don’t ever remember him being so sick,” whispers Uriel, her gaze falling on her middle sibling.

“Yes, neither do I,” Ezra says after a moment. “We’ve been together for a while now, and I… I had no idea. I should have looked harder, paid more attention.” He pauses again, fidgeting at the ring on his finger. “It’s no wonder he had a panic attack that day, seeing you.”

Uriel hums an agreement, thinking over her words carefully, ignoring the tapping of Lucifer’s fingers on her wheelchair’s handgrip. “I don’t blame him,” she says, “I’d have had the same reaction in his place. I’d have run away too.”

_“Uriel,”_ Lucifer scolds, but she turns her head enough to give him a glare rivalling one of their mother’s. He huffs, but relents and leaves the room with the door closing behind him.

She and Ezra sit in silence for a while, just watching the mechanical rise and fall of Crowley’s chest.

“I hope you know he was terribly worried about you when he got the news,” Ezra says as he takes Crowley’s hand again, “Had us out of the flat in minutes when he got the call.”

“He’s always been a good sibling,” Uriel says back, “I’ve few fond memories of growing up, but the ones I have all involve him.”

Ezra nods, rubbing the back of Crowley’s hand.

“I always wondered about what he was like before I met him— he’s always been so closed off, he’s known about the relationship with my family but he’s never disclosed his own.” Ezra scoffs. “I wonder why.”

“Oh, believe me,” Uriel says, “Whatever family drama you’ve seen so far has been nothing.” She sighs, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. “It… I didn’t know it then, but I’ve been able to piece some things together. It was a good thing, him starting over.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well—”

Uriel’s interrupted by a quiet, blink–and–you’ll–miss–it groan from Crowley. She gasps, exchanges a look with Ezra, and manages to wheel herself closer to his bedside and across from Ezra, wincing at the way the action irritates her wounds.

For a moment, nothing else happens, but when Uriel grabs his hand, there’s a twitch and a slight curl of fingers, just as gold–yellow eyes blearily blink open. Uriel knows that he’s not lucid yet by any stretch, and she should probably call her brothers or Mika or Mum, but for the moment she simply sits and holds his hand and watches as he turns his head a fraction of an inch and looks at Ezra.

“Anthony?” Ezra asks, voice hesitant, hands still holding one of Crowley’s own.

She can see the slight movement as Crowley squeezes Ezra’s hand back, met with a grateful sigh from the blond as he presses a kiss to Crowley’s knuckle.

Uriel simply sits, continuing to hold his other hand and think that the new name suits him, silently rolling it around in her mouth and mind. Crowley’s gaze briefly flicks to meet her eyes, but she can tell he’s not registering who she is — there’s a vacant, sedated look there, but it’s familiar, like the way he used to look when home from uni and waking up from a nap on the couch. She can tell, it’s a struggle for him to stay awake.

“Go back to sleep,” she soothes, the same way he’d do to her after a nightmare. “We’ll be here when you wake up next time, all of us.”

Ezra nods, though Uriel can tell he doesn’t want him to go back to the drug–induced sleep, but it’s obvious that it will be a bit longer until Crowley awakes fully lucid.

“It’s alright,” Ezra tells him, and that’s all it takes.

The tension leaves Crowley’s body slowly, looking less like a panicked emergency and more like a soft drift into slumber with the comforting, steady rhythm of the cardiac monitor — and really, it’s the first time Uriel’s seen him look at peace in a long time while feeling at peace with herself. 


	21. Ambrosia

His memories flash before his eyes, as if they were trailers before the start of a movie, going by too fast to distinguish them from one another. His brothers and sisters, still unchanged from the last time he’s seen them, how he’d left so he wouldn’t have to burden them with his presence. Ezra’s cornflower blue eyes and gentle smile, the way his broken heart had distorted those features when the truth that’s been withheld for so long had uncovered itself.

Why is he even still here, if only ever causes pain to those he loves the most? It would be best for everyone if he just leaves for good.

Someone is weeping, but his eyelids are too heavy for him to open them and see who it is.

Maybe he’s still needed after all.

Everything is ringing. And then, nothing.

His senses return to him one by one. An incessant mechanical beeping overhead, oxygen hissing through a cannula under his nostrils, intermingling with the harsh scent of disinfectant. A dull ache in his chest, the scratchiness of rough fabric against his skin. The blaze of sunlight coming in through the window, forcing his eyes open.

“Are you lucid now?”

His brother’s face comes into focus, leaning over him. What’s he doing here?

“Oh, God. I’m in hell,” Crowley groans, the odd dryness of his throat leaving his voice scratchy and hoarse.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” replies Lucifer, settling back down on a nearby chair. “Also, is that really the way to greet your older brother?”

“Why are you here?” Crowley asks instead, slowly growing frustrated at how he couldn’t seem to catch his breath or raise his voice above a whisper.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” his brother asks back, raising an eyebrow as he glares at Crowley, his arms crossed against his chest.

Crowley takes in a deep breath, squinting against the sunlight. “God, you’re even more annoying than I remember. Where are my glasses?”

“Broke them when your hard skull hit the floor, I’ll buy you a new one,” says Lucifer, rolling his eyes.

“Fuck off, Lu,” Crowley says, then tilts his head sideways. “Right. Why am I here?”

“Because you were an idiot and collapsed on me again.” Lucifer narrows his eyes, before he goes to pinch the bridge of his nose. “What the _fuck,_ Raph? How long have you not been seeing a doctor?”

“Don’t call me that,” scowls Crowley. “And I don’t know. A while, maybe? I’ve been busy.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Lucifer stares at him incredulously, before sighing a long–suffering sigh. “They told me. _Six years._ How are you still not taking this seriously? _You could’ve died.”_

“I’m not a child, Lucifer.”

“Aren’t you?” asks Lucifer, staring so intently at Crowley that he’s forced to look away. “I’m asking you now. Aren’t you? Because you’re sure as hell acting like one. If I’d known you’re not going to take of yourself, I’d have dragged you back home by the scruff of your neck the moment I found out you were alive.”

_“Would you shut up?”_ Crowley snaps, turning his head to glare at his brother. “Stop smothering me, I ca—”

Crowley is cut off by the sudden sharp pain in his chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs and making his hand fly up to his chest, nails digging into the flimsy fabric of the hospital gown as he clutches at his heart.

“Raph?” He hears Lucifer call out, but his brother’s voice sounds muffled, as if he’s hearing it from underwater. “Raphael, what’s wrong?”

“Go away,” is all Crowley could manage to say, before the darkness overtakes him.

Crowley jolts awake, his heart pounding in his chest as he gasps for breath. His brother’s nowhere to be found; Lu must’ve given up and left already, and no one else is in the room with him either. It’s an odd feeling, to be alone like this. He hasn’t been this lonely since he’d first ran away so long ago. Even Ezra’s not here, he must be worried sick by now, he’s never—

_Oh._

He _knows._

Crowley’s breaths grow quicker and quicker, his eyes growing wider a the events of that night come back to him.

_Shit._

What has he done? He should’ve listened to Anathema and told him sooner. _Ezra’s not here,_ he hasn’t forgiven, he’s never going to—

The ring.

Where was the ring?

Crowley pushes himself up from the bed, ignoring the lightheadedness that the action brings as he cranes his neck and looks around the room, searching for a familiar glint of metal, panic climbing up his chest with every second that passes without that last chance at forgiveness.

He’s about to burst into tears when the door bursts open to reveal his brother, who immediately rushes up next to him upon seeing upright.

_“What are you doing?”_ Lucifer hisses, as he makes Crowley lay back down on the bed with a nudge. “You shouldn’t be sitting up right now.”

“They know,” says Crowley breathlessly, as he stares dull–eyed at his brother.

“Yes,” his brother replies, exhaling loudly.

“Mum too?”

“She’s been here,” Lucifer says, tilting his head to the side as he steps back. “A few times. You’ll have to talk to her, you know that?”

“Well, I don’t want to,” mutters Crowley, tearing his gaze away from his brother to stare at the wall instead. “Is Uriel…?”

“She’s alright,” says Lucifer, sighing. “She’s been awake for a while, asked to see you several times. Demanded it, even.”

Crowley shifts in his bed, turning his back to his brother. “I really fucked up, huh,” he says, biting at his lip. “So what’s wrong with me this time?”

“I don’t thi—”

“Just tell me,” Crowley cuts in sharply. “Please.”

“Valve’s failing again. You had surgery the same night you collapsed to fix it, but they’re not sure it’s going to hold up,” Lucifer says, his voice and expression softening. “Nearly died on me _twice,_ but then I always knew you’re too stubborn to.”

“Well,” Crowley says, turning to fix his brother a hard stare. “You’re too stubborn to let me.”

Lucifer stares at him, the silence that resulted from his words deafening, and Crowley’s sure his brother’s going to walk away from him again when Lucifer breaks eye contact, biting at his lip as he speaks.

“Did you want me to?”

“Just… Leave me alone, will you?” Crowley says, turning away and shutting his eyes, waiting for another dreamless sleep.

There are birds chirping outside his window.

Strange. He’d never been able to hear birdsong from within a hospital room before.

There’s also the soft sound of paper being shuffled, like someone turning the pages of a book.

Maybe his mind’s just making up things now.

Crowley slowly opens his eyes.

The glare of someone’s glasses against the fluorescent light takes him aback at first, and Crowley blinks as he refocuses his eyes.

When he opens them again, Crowley is greeted by a sight he’d never thought to see again. Ezra’s sitting on a chair pulled up next to the bed, his soft blond curls a veritable bird’s nest, reading glasses perched atop his nose as the familiar blue eyes are fixed deep in concentration on a hardbound book he holds in his hands.

“Ezra?” Crowley croaks out, trying to clear a dry throat. “Are you here?”

Ezra startles, slamming the book shut as he leans over the bed railing and looks at him. “Anthony?” he says.

“Is this a dream?” asks Crowley, unable to tear his gaze away from Ezra.

“It’s not,” Ezra replies with a curious glint in his eyes. “I’m here.”

Crowley takes a shaky breath, pulling his lips into an apologetic smile. “Rather made a mess of things, I’m afraid.”

Ezra’s eyebrow arches upwards, as he tilts his head to the side in agreement. “You really have, dear boy.”

“Did you go to France?” Crowley asks, suddenly remembering, his own brows knitting together as he concentrates on staying awake. “I left the tickets in your dresser.”

“Couldn’t do it. Stuff happened,” replies Ezra, as he reaches over the railing to brush Crowley’ hair off his face, and Crowley’s breath hitches as his eyes catch on a familiar glint on Ezra’s ring finger. “I lost my best friend.”

“So sorry to hear it,” Crowley says, sighing as he blinks back tears. “Listen. Erm, I— I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it sooner.”

Ezra continues to stroke his hair, sighing aloud. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to tell me about your family, at least.”

“So you’ve met them, then?” Crowley asks, grimacing at the possibility.

“All of them,” confirms Ezra, nodding. “You have your mother’s hair.”

Crowley groans, sinking his head deeper onto the pillow. “I think I should sleep. I’m already exhausted, you know me.”

“No, apparently not,” Ezra says, glaring coolly at him.

“You’re never going to let me hear the end of this, are you?” says Crowley, groaning again.

“Possibly,” replies Ezra, pressing his lips together as he continues to glare at Crowley. “Why would you not tell me about your heart condition?”

“Oh, I didn’t—” Crowley says, stumbling on his tongue as he looks away from Ezra. “I didn’t want you to worry about me.”

_“Dearest,”_ starts Ezra, taking a deep breath before continuing. _“You could have died._ What if this happened at home and I didn’t know what to do?”

“I know,” says Crowley, sheepishly. “I’m sorry. No more secrets.”

“Can you promise me that?”

“I promise,” Crowley says, blinking slowly. “Can I go to sleep now?”

“You may, dearest,” says Ezra, leaning over to place a kiss on Crowley’s forehead, brushing his hair away. “Dream of whatever you like best.”

“I don’t have to. You’re already here,” Crowley replies, smiling as he closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligated to inform you that the working title for this chapter was “wakey wakey snakey.”


	22. Nasturtium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it really a flashback if it just picks up on where Ezra’s previous chapter left off?

Ezra fidgets with the hem of his coat, pulling at them to try and straighten them to make himself look more presentable. He doesn’t know what to expect from this lunch, let alone from Mrs Christchurch, who has somehow managed to make the entirety of the marketing and sales department fear her despite never once setting foot inside Christchurch Towers the whole time Ezra’s been employed there.

But this isn’t about business. No, she wants to meet him to talk about her son, the same son whom Ezra has just found out he barely knows anything about. What would he even say to her, that Ezra had helped to put him where he is right now, motionless in a bed and hovering between life and death?

Crowley’s siblings stop walking without Ezra noticing, in front of someone waiting by the lift, tapping their foot impatiently against the white tiles. Ezra has to shift his position, away from the fluorescent lights, in order to get a better glimpse, and as he spots a sharp bob cut atop a head currently kissing Michael’s cheek, he realises where he’s seen them or Michael before. The theatre, during that Shakespeare performance. Which means—

“So, who’s this?” they ask, arching an eyebrow as they look at Ezra.

Lucifer opens his mouth to speak, but before he could do so, Michael elbows her brother in the ribs, making him double over with a groan.

“Oh, this is Ezra Fell,” says Michael, gesturing at Ezra to step forward. “Raph’s… er, Crowley’s fiancé. Ezra, this is Bee Prince, my—”

“Girlfriend,” coughs Lucifer.

_“I will kill you,”_ Michael hisses with a sharp glare at her brother, before she turns back to Ezra. “Bee’s my partner at our law practice. Family friend, really.”

_“Really?”_ Bee says, extending a hand that Ezra reluctantly shakes. “I can’t believe he actually managed to have one.”

_“Bee…”_ sighs Michael, as she folds her arms over her chest with a disappointed expression.

“What? I’m just trying to lighten the mood, Mye,” replies Bee, linking her arm around Michael’s. “You worry about your brother too much.”

“Can’t help it,” Michael says with a slight smile. “Too used to it.”

“He’ll get through this. He always does,” sighs Bee. “Does Lady Ash know about him?” she asks, gesturing her head towards Ezra.

“Not yet,” Lucifer replies when Michael turns to him for an answer. “Didn’t get a chance to. Are you coming or not?” he asks Ezra, the hostility still evident in his voice.

Ezra’s startled into nodding, gulping as he gets into the lift with the rest of them, standing silently in the corner as the lift takes them down to the ground floor.

They end up in a secluded area of the food court, where an elegantly–dressed middle–aged woman sits waiting beside Ezra’s boss, with a silk scarf tied around her head and dark sunglasses worn over her eyes to obscure her features.

“Hey, Mum,” Lucifer says as he leans down to kiss the woman’s cheek. “Still hiding from the paps?” he asks, gesturing to their mother’s scarf.

“We can’t let them know about your brother now, can we?” their mother replies in a cut–glass accent. “But you’re being rude, Alex. Who’s our guest?”

“Ezra Fell,” mutters Gabriel as he casts a dark glare towards Ezra, so sudden that Ezra’s startled by the sound of his voice. “He came with Raph the other day.”

“Are you Raph’s friend, then?” their mother asks, nodding at Ezra to come closer.

“I—” Ezra hesitates, unwilling to admit anything, lest what little goodwill Crowley’s mother is offering him right now turns sour.

“His fiancé,” Michael immediately interjects, placing a hand on Ezra’s shoulder and giving him a reassuring smile before Ezra could jump out of his skin. “He’s his fiancé, Ezra just needed to run some errands so he couldn’t meet you yesterday. Ezra, this is the Lady Ashara Christchurch, our mother.”

“Is that so?” Lady Ashara asks with a small smile strikingly similar to Crowley’s. “Come, do join us for lunch.”

“I— No, I don’t think—”

_“I insist,”_ says Lady Ashara, lowering her sunglasses to reveal grey eyes staring intensely at him.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Ezra finally mumbles, wringing his hands and chewing at his lip as he takes a seat on the table.

“So,” Lady Ashara says, finally breaking the tense silence around the table, addressing Ezra with a scrutinizing gaze. “How did you meet Ra— Crowley?”

Ezra looks up at the question, releasing a shaky puff of air between his lips, his hands still wrapped around the mug of cocoa that’s the only thing his stomach could handle at the moment — but then averts his gaze once more when he catches sight of the glare Gabriel is still levelling at him.

From the corner of his eyes, Ezra sees Michael elbowing Lucifer in the ribs as he pulls a flask out and pours a hearty dose of what Ezra could only guess at as something alcoholic to his coffee, cursing at them when Bee tries to take the flask away.

Lady Ashara gives them all a sharp glare, and as everyone starts to settle down again, she turns her gaze back to Ezra. “Well, Ezra?” she asks with a smile, as if to apologize for her children’s behaviour.

“It was raining,” Ezra starts, running his thumb back and forth against a chip on the mug’s handle. “Downpour really, and I came across him on the side of the road with a broken–down car. We went to a café, and I left my phone, and he offered to return it to me. It turned into dating from there, and, well…”

Lady Ashara smiles and nods, taking a small sip of her tea. “That sounds like him,” she replies quietly. “Always did have a penchant for _losing_ things, not finding them.”

She falls silent, and Michael picks the conversation up in the silence that ensues.

“When did he tell you about everything?” asks Michael.

Ezra’s mouth goes dry. “He… didn’t. I saw his eyes the first official date we had, he got a bloody nose at the table and I took his glasses off to help him wipe off the blood,” he says, laughing a little at the memory. “He looked so surprised that I thought they were nice.”

“Well, his dad _was_ a prick about them,” Bee huffs under her breath.

Ezra’s posture stiffens up, expecting Lady Ashara to snap at the remark, but it never comes.

Oddly enough, she nods. “Best not to speak ill of the dead, Beatrice,” she says, _sotto voce_, as she places her cup of tea down on the saucer.

Gabriel stabs a piece of lettuce from his salad with a fork. “Why are we still talking to him?” he asks, still glaring at Ezra. “He caused this, Mum! Raph’s in the ICU right now because he broke up with him!”

_“Gabriel,”_ Lady Ashara warns, not once raising her voice. “Hear him out first. Is this true, Ezra?”

“I—” Ezra pushes his mug away with shaking hands, suddenly feeling out of breath. “I’m sorry. I— I have to go,” he says as he stands up so quickly that the chair he was sitting on clatters loudly to the floor, fleeing the scene before anyone could call out for him.

“You’ve made such a mess, you know,” Ezra says, his eyes glazed over as he stares into Crowley’s impassive face, after he finds himself brought back into this room by his feet. “You could’ve said something before all this happened. I thought you knew I don’t deal well with surprises.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything, nor does Ezra expect him to. He’s in a coma, after all; there’s no use waiting for an answer from someone who couldn’t.

Ezra stares on, regardless, past all the wires and equipment overwhelming him, until he really, truly sees Crowley for the first time since the incident. Crowley looks utterly washed–out, blue veins visible under a paper–white skin, the freckles on his cheeks so faded that they seem to have disappeared entirely.

“How did it go so wrong?” he asks, furiously wiping away a stray tear with the back of his hand. “We were so happy just the other night. Why did we end up like this?”

Ezra fiddles with his engagement ring, his lips wobbling as his eyes stay fixed on Crowley’s comatose form, when he hears the door open behind him and Ezra hurriedly closes his fist around the ring.

He thinks it’s the nurse at first, without the other person speaking to him, but as the footsteps come closer and stop by the chair across from him, does Ezra realise that it’s Crowley’s mother instead, her eyes turned to her son as she sits down and removes both her scarf and sunglasses, revealing long, thick red hair, in a shade lighter than her son’s, but familiar regardless.

“I never thought I’d see him again like this,” Lady Ashara says, combing her fingers through Crowley’s hair.

“How did you know I would be here, Ma’am?” asks Ezra, staring at the hands he’s folded over his lap.

“Just Lady Ash. All of my children’s friends call me that, even though it’s not really proper,” replies Lady Ashara, offering a placating smile. “And I didn’t. I just thought I should see my son, although heaven knows he probably doesn’t want me to.”

Ezra looks up, before he immediately averts his eyes again. _“Oh,” _he says.

“I apologise for what Gabriel said,” Lady Ashara sighs, withdrawing her hand from Crowley’s hair as she reclines on the chair. “That boy has never learnt to control his temper.”

“I’m used to it, Ma— Lady Ash,” Ezra says, hastily amending himself when he sees the look she is giving him.

“You work for him, don’t you?” asks Lady Ashara. “I’ve asked Gabriel about it. I was afraid of this, of him becoming too much like his father.”

_Oh._

“Ma’am— Lady Ash,” Ezra says, biting at his lip. “Do you know why he would just run away?”

But he already knows the answer to that, doesn’t he? He just needs to be sure.

Lady Ashara shakes her head, smiling sadly as she takes Crowley’s hand into her own and squeezes it tight. “We almost lost him at sixteen, you know,” she sighs, rubbing her thumb over the back of Crowley’s hand. “Collapsed in our kitchen right before his birthday. I wasn’t even _home,”_ Lady Ashara says, her voice breaking with a suppressed sob.

Ezra nods silently, tightening his fist around the ring.

“You’ll have to excuse Alex, by the way,” adds Lady Ashara as she clears her throat. “He’s always been overprotective of his brother since then. Michael told me he’d snapped at you this morning.”

“It _was_ my fault,” Ezra says, biting at his lip as he unclenches his fist to stop it from shaking. “There was already so much going on. I shouldn’t have added to his problems. I should’ve— I should’ve listened to him first. This wouldn’t have happened if I’d just listened to him first.”

Lady Ashara reaches over across the bed, holding both of Ezra’s hands in hers as she locks eyes with him. “That wasn’t your fault,” she says, shaking her head. “Anyone in your position would have reacted the same way. I don’t blame you for it.”

Lady Ashara squeezes Ezra’s hands, forcing Ezra to uncurl his fingers and drop the ring into her palm. Her eyes widen as the metal touches her skin, and she turns her hand over, her expression softening as the moonstone in the centre of ring catches the light.

“He gave this to you?” Lady Ashara asks, her eyes twinkling as she looks back at Ezra.

“I— Yes,” replies Ezra, stumbling over his words. “I didn’t— I couldn’t wear it again, not after—”

“You should,” she says, depositing the ring back onto Ezra’s palm and curling his fingers around it. “I’m glad my son found you.”

Ezra nods, pursing his lips and unwilling to say more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But we were so lost in the euphoria of waking Crowley up, that we failed to realize this chapter should’ve come before it theme-wise.


	23. Rowan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no better day to upload this than Crowley’s in–universe birthday

Anathema probably should have guessed something was bound to go wrong sooner or later.

After all, AJ hadn’t looked well yesterday, and despite all the nagging, Anathema knows him all too well that she’s sure he’d just gone home and slept it off instead of seeing a doctor like she’d told him to.

She just hopes, as she stands in front of the still–closed shop and listens to his phone go to voicemail for the fifth time, that he’d had enough sense to tell Ezra what’s going on. It won’t do if Ezra finds out about everything in this way.

Anathema tries again, this time with Ezra’s number, but even that sends her to voicemail, as well as the landline they have at their flat.

Something must have happened, Anathema thinks with a sudden chill. They wouldn’t have just left on a vacation without AJ telling her about his plans first.

Anathema’s phone hits her bottom lip.

What if—

Does Ezra know about his family yet? He must have. AJ still has his brother saved as an emergency contact, and Ezra would’ve had to call _someone_ should the worst happen.

Anathema shakes the thought away, sitting on the edge of the pavement. AJ’s fine. She’s sure he is. He didn’t look that bad off yesterday, after all.

She exhales slowly, steadying her nerves as she sucks blood from the cut where her phone met her lip, as she tries to find Lu’s number buried in her contacts, hoping that he’s actually in the country right now.

It connects, and Anathema almost yells out of relief.

“Is AJ with you?” Anathema asks, before Lu can even get a word out. “He’s not answering his phone.”

“Who is this?” an exhausted voice on the other end of the line says.

“Anathema,” sighs Anathema. “The only friend of your brother who actually knows he’s alive because he works at my grandmother’s flower shop? Do you know where he is?”

_“Oh._ Right. Sorry, I—” Lu says, followed by an audible exhale. _“Shit._ You wouldn’t know yet, would you?”

“Know what?” asks Anathema, her breath catching in her throat.

“He was with me last night, and then… he’d had an incident,” replies Lucifer, his voice shaking. “It’s not looking good.”

_“Oh,”_ Anathema says, feeling her heart drop. “Does Ezra know? Where are you? I’ll come to you,” she adds as she pushes herself up from the pavement to hail a cab.

“Oh, don’t bother bringing _him,”_ Lucifer says, the venom dripping from his words stopping Anathema dead in her tracks.

“Why not? He’s y—”

_“I know what he is,”_ snaps Lucifer. _“Was._ We wouldn’t even be here right now if it wasn’t for him.”

“So he found out,” Anathema whispers, chewing at her lip. “Where are you?”

“Addenbrooke’s,” replies Lucifer. “But you can’t come. Not today.”

_“What?”_ says Anathema, taken aback. “Didn’t you _just_ say it’s not looking good? What the hell, Lucifer?”

“Our mother’s coming. You don’t want to get involved, trust me.”

“I’ll see you,” Anathema says simply, hanging up on him before she groans frustratedly behind her hands.

Lucifer doesn’t notice as Anathema walks into the room. All the better, he can’t make her leave before she could see her friend.

Anathema steps closer, one foot in front of the other, stopping abruptly when she’s inches away from the foot of the bed as AJ comes into view.

_He doesn’t look like himself,_ is the first thought that comes to Anathema. Neither can she remember a time when she’s seen him this ill, covered in so many wires and sensors that she can barely see him underneath them. AJ’s always seemed so well the whole time Anathema’s known him, that it’s too easy for her to forget just how serious his condition could get.

“I thought I told you not to come today?” Lucifer asks in a thick voice, stirring in his seat.

“You really thought that’s going to stop me?” Anathema shoots back, glaring momentarily at him before her gaze falls back towards AJ. “I thought he just had a migraine,” she adds, softer this time.

“Maybe it did start out like that,” sighs Lucifer. “Or maybe it didn’t. You know him, he never admits he’s ill until he ends up collapsing in a heap.”

“Unfortunately,” says Anathema, shaking her head. “But why were you blaming Ezra on the phone?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Lucifer demands, his eyes flashing with anger. “Who dumps someone while their sister’s dying, and someone with a failing heart at that?”

Anathema’s head snaps up, turning to Lucifer with a puzzled expression. “Wait. Slow down. _What?”_ she asks. “Which sister?”

“Uriel. She was mugged last night. Gabe says she should be alright now, but…” Lucifer’s voice trails off. “I don’t know.”

_“Shit.”_

“Yeah. Shit,” agrees Lucifer, leaning his head back on the chair. “Are you going to stay for long?”

“No, I—” Anathema hesitates, looking back at AJ’s pale face. “I shouldn’t. I need to go back to the shop. Cancel orders. I can’t do floral arrangements as well as he does.”

“Oh. Well, then…” Lucifer says, pulling his lips together into something resembling a grimace. “Take care of yourself.”

“Take care of AJ,” replies Anathema, stealing one last look at her friend before she turns to leave.

It’s late afternoon of the next day when Anathema finally manages to disentangle herself from the mess left behind by complaints about cancelled orders and drop by at the hospital.

Anathema opens the door, yawning with exhaustion as she steps inside, when the sight of someone else in the room takes her by surprise.

Ezra’s here.

At the same time, Ezra looks up from where he was stroking AJ’s hair, appearing just as surprised by her presence.

“Hey,” Anathema says softly as she takes the chair opposite Ezra’s.

Ezra follows her movements silently with his eyes, pursing his lips together.

“You’re not going to say anything,” sighs Anathema, meeting Ezra’s eyes.

“What else is there to talk about?” Ezra asks back, clenching his hands into fists as he places them on his lap.

Anathema shrugs a noncommittal shrug. “I’ve never seen him like this,” she admits, glancing briefly at AJ before turning again to Ezra.

“I thought you’ve known him long enough for that,” says Ezra, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

“No, I—” Anathema chews at her bottom lip, weighing her words carefully. “We met here, in this hospital, but he was already getting better by then, so no, I’ve never seen him like this.”

“But you still knew,” Ezra points out.

Anathema sighs, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I tried to make him tell you. I guess he just never listens.”

“You could’ve told me yourself.”

“It’s not my secret to tell, Ezra,” Anathema says. “It was always up to him.”

Ezra sighs, looking at AJ with a sad smile. “I’ve asked his sister the same thing, but… I still can’t quite figure it out. Why wouldn’t he say anything?”

Anathema follows his lead, turning her gaze to AJ as well. He looks worse than he did yesterday, something she didn’t think could be possible. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him that yourself when he wakes up,” she says.

Of course it’s a matter of when. Anything else would be unacceptable to her otherwise.

“I’ve thought about it, you know,” Ezra replies, rubbing his thumb over the back of AJ’s hand. “Waking him up. I thought, maybe if I kiss him, he’ll wake up and be alright again to give me answers. But it doesn’t work like that, does it? It’s not like I’m Prince Charming, and this isn’t a fairy tale.”

“You never know,” says Anathema, watching the mechanical rise and fall of her oldest friend’s chest, and finding herself wishing it wasn’t so. “Stranger things have happened.”

“I hope so,” Ezra sighs, his lips tugging into a small, sad smile. “I really do hope so.”

She is between sleep and wakefulness, when Anathema is startled by a voice she almost thought she wouldn’t hear again.

“Plastic flowers? _Really,_ Ana?”

“Forgot this wasn’t the children’s ward for a hot minute,” Anathema automatically replies, blinking her eyes open as she pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

_“Must_ you snip at me?” says AJ, sounding woebegone and utterly exhausted.

Anathema crosses her arms over her chest, rolling her eyes. “Well, _now_ which one of us is acting like a child?”

AJ grimaces, as he makes a noise coming from the back of his throat. “I deserved that,” he says. “You were right, you know. I should’ve told him sooner. Could’ve avoided all this drama.”

Anathema smiles, chuckling under her breath. “I’m always right,” she agrees.

“Yep,” says AJ, popping the p before he sighs. “How’s the shop?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Anathema replies, adjusting herself on the seat. “I’ve hired someone for the time being.”

“Oh?” AJ raises an eyebrow. “Who’d you replace me with?”

Anathema sighs, looking up at the ceiling for patience. “I _didn’t_ replace you, you drama queen. I just got someone to help me around the shop while you’re here.”

“Yeah, who is it then?” insists AJ.

“Remember Ezra’s friend? She got me to hire that guy who moved into Ezra’s old apartment unit,” Anathema replies.

“But is he any good?”

“Eh,” Anathema says, shrugging. “We’ll see.”

_“God,_ what a mess,” says AJ as he looks back up towards the tabletop. “I don’t think Lu left any macarons.”

“That’s alright,” Anathema says with a slight smile. “Apology accepted. I’ll just have to write it on your tab.”

“I don’t have a tab, Ana,” replies AJ, rolling his eyes. “But I really am sorry. D’you think they can forgive me?”

Anathema hums, tilting her head as she pretends to think for him. “Oh, I don’t know,” she sighs. “You might need an entire shop’s worth of sweets for that.”

“Ana…”

“You’ll have to tell them the truth, AJ,” Anathema says with a curl of her lip.

“No more hiding in the shade, huh,” replies AJ, blinking his eyes slowly as he sighs.


	24. Honeysuckle

As it turns out, it is way more terrifying for Ezra to see Crowley babbling incoherently than to see him unconscious and silent.

It makes Ezra feel helpless, seeing how Crowley would call out names in his sleep, begging for the shades that only he could see to not leave him. The names differ every day, sometimes calling out for family members, at others names Ezra haven’t heard before; but it’s Ezra’s name he calls out most of all, asking for forgiveness, and yet no matter how many times Ezra holds his hand and tells Crowley that he’s right there, Crowley remains weeping all the same.

Lady Ashara is always here to sit with him, though rarely on Sundays, soothing her son whenever he asks for her, which happens often enough, even though Crowley always seems to see through her and she always insists that her son wouldn’t want her there once he’s lucid.

It’s not just her, however. Crowley’s siblings stay with Crowley whenever Ezra couldn’t. Or at least he knows Michael and Lucifer do; Ezra hasn’t seen his boss since that dreadful lunch, either in the hospital or at their office, which is probably for the best.

“He was like that the first time,” Michael tells Ezra as she enters the room, after Ezra had just managed to make Crowley sleep for the night. “Always looking for us like he was afraid we’d left him by himself while he was sleeping. He thought I was our mother once.” Michael smiles sadly, taking the chair across from Ezra. “Can’t imagine why,” she adds, gesturing to her own auburn hair.

“Does it ever get easier?” asks Ezra, his hand still combing through Crowley’s hair. “Seeing him like this, I mean.”

“There’s no getting used to it,” Michael sighs as her gaze falls to her brother. “There’s always going to be a part of you that worries he’ll never wake up or recognize you again.”

Ezra exhales aloud, withdrawing his hand to pick at the lint on the edges of his cuffs instead. “So how can you stand it?” he asks, blinking away the blurriness in his eyes. “I don’t know if I can still do this, not when I know I can’t do anything to help him.”

“You believe in him, Ezra,” whispers Michael. “That’s what you do. Believe that he can do this, that it won’t be like this forever.”

The storm breaks, as they are usually wont to do, and no matter how verbose Ezra could be, there still aren’t enough words for him to express the relief he’d felt the first time Crowley looked at him with recognition in his eyes.

Ezra doesn’t have the heart to ask him about anything right now, however. Not yet. That will come in time. For now, he is content to have Crowley back, recovering at last.

“Aren’t you mad at me?”

Ezra startles, slamming shut the Georgette Heyer paperback he’d brought with him as he clears his throat and pushes his reading glasses up his nose.

“What was that, dear?” he asks, turning to Crowley.

“I said,” says Crowley, as he adjusts himself on the bed to face Ezra. “Aren’t you mad at me? I should’ve told you about this before.”

“I was,” Ezra sighs, wiping the lenses of his glasses on his shirt before he puts them back on again. “And then I almost lost you. I was waiting to see if you’d tell me yourself.”

Crowley exhales sharply, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

“So why didn’t you say anything?” asks Ezra, sharper than he’d meant to. “I care about you. Did you, what— think I’d leave you when I found out you’re ill?”

“I don’t— I don’t know,” Crowley says, chewing at his lip. “I think I was afraid.”

“Of what, Crowley?”

Crowley sighs, staring at the wall instead. “Rejection, I guess,” he says. “Of you treating me differently when you found out. Everyone else did.”

“But I’m _not _everyone else, Crowley,” whispers Ezra, his eyes flicking to the ring still on his finger. “We were getting married.”

“Were?” Crowley echoes with a shaky breath.

“I’m pretty sure we can’t get married while you’re in the hospital, dear,” Ezra replies, twisting the ring around to get the stone back to the centre. “You’ll have to reschedule whatever date you had in mind.”

“Ezra, I—”

“I had enough time to think about it,” he starts. “And I think… I think I do forgive you. I can listen, at least. Will you tell me?”

“Alright,” replies Crowley, nodding as he exhales. “Alright. Erm… Where do I begin?”

“You could start at the beginning,” Ezra suggests, smiling a little as he shifts in the chair to a more comfortable position.

“Erm,” says Crowley as he clears his throat. “Well, I was born here, in Cambridge. You’ve met my siblings. And my mum,” he adds, tacking on the last part with a grimace. “Got a heart condition, which you already know about since we’re both here. Ran away my final year of medical school.”

“And?”

“And then I met you, six years later,” Crowley replies, turning his head to face Ezra again.

“Are you going to tell me why you ran away?” asks Ezra, leaning his body closer to Crowley.

Crowley shakes his head, sighing. “Not right now. Maybe someday,” he says, pulling his lips into a tight–lipped smile. “So that’s me, basically. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“Alright,” Ezra says, nodding slowly. “It’s a start, at least.”

Crowley is tossing in bed when Ezra visits him again, his eyes shut tight in an attempt to sleep as his brother sits in a chair pulled up next to him, texting someone on his phone as he scowls. Neither of his other siblings have visited since Crowley became lucid.

Lucifer looks up as Ezra walks into the room, and Ezra nods silently at him as he sits on the chair opposite his, taking Crowley’s hand.

“Ezra?” Crowley says as his eyelids flutter open, grimacing as he continues to find a comfortable position on the bed. _“God,_ I forgot how much I hate hospitals.”

“Well, _maybe_ if you were taking better care of yourself…” Lucifer says, sighing as he locks his phone screen and puts it in his pocket.

“Shut up, Lu,” Crowley hisses, glaring at his brother before he turns his eyes back to Ezra. “Hey, what day is it?”

“Friday,” Ezra replies, smiling at him.

“Ng— No, not _that,”_ says Crowley, grumbling under his breath. “The _date.”_

“Oh, just tell him,” Lucifer grouses, adjusting himself on the chair and crossing his arms across his chest. “He’s just gonna keep pestering everyone about it if you don’t.”

“It’s, erm…” Ezra hesitates, as he tries to gauge what Crowley’s reaction will be when he finds out. “It’s June 7th.”

_“Oh,”_ Crowley says, sinking into the pillow. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? It’s almost your birthday!”

Ezra twists the ring around his finger, avoiding Crowley’s gaze. “Well, a lot’s happened. We can always celebrate next year.”

“But what if I—” Crowley’s eyes widen, suddenly clamping his mouth shut. “Never mind that,” he says in a smaller voice. “You should’ve said something, we could still celebrate it here.”

“There’s really no need, I—”

“Ezra,” Crowley interrupts, squeezing at Ezra’s hand before he pushes himself into a sitting position. “It’s your birthday. Let me make it up to you.”

“You don’t have to. Really,” replies Ezra, smiling a little as he squeezes Crowley’s hand in return.

Crowley smiles back, winking at Ezra as he usually does when he’s plotting something. “You’ll see.”

Ezra is waiting for a cab outside of their flat complex when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. Anathema’s calling, and it takes Ezra a moment to remember she’s watching after Crowley today before he picks up.

“Yes?” Ezra says into the receiver, just as a cab stops in front of him and he embarks.

“Oh, hey. Ezra,” replies Anathema on the other end. “Are you on your way to the hospital right now?”

“No, I was—” Ezra cuts himself off as he clears his throat. “I was on my way to work, actually. Why, what is it?”

Of course he’s going to work. Gabriel’s been making noises about his excessive absences, and the hospital bills are stacking up. Crowley’s family may be rich, but there’s still no guarantee they’re paying for any of the expenses.

“Nothing, it’s just…” Anathema sighs, and there’s a brief pause before she continues. “AJ’s been asking about you.”

“Is— Is something wrong?” asks Ezra, panic rise up in his throat. “Is he alright?”

Anathema doesn’t reply, and Ezra’s about to repeat himself when she exhales loudly. “Just… Just come here, please.”

The dial tone greets Ezra before he can get another word in, and Ezra takes in a shaky breath, his heart dropping to his stomach, as he directs the cabbie to change their course.

He’s standing outside the door, hesitating about entering as he listens for any noise. Ezra can’t hear anything, though, and he doesn’t know if that should concern him.

He bites at his lip, pushing the door open anyway.

And then a party popper explodes in his face.

_“Happy birthday, Ezra!”_

Crowley’s grinning at him, sitting up in his bed without any assistance, but the flaring nostrils and the pale skin beaded with sweat tells Ezra just how much of a toll even this simple action is taking on him.

Ezra tries to smile back as he walks over to Crowley. “Really, dear?” he sighs, sitting at the edge of the bed.

“You don’t like it?” asks Crowley, frowning as he flops back down on the bed and faces Ezra, gasping for breath.

“No, it’s just that… I have a _job,”_ Ezra says, turning the ring around his finger. “We could’ve just done this after office hours. And did you really have to make me worry with that call?”

“Sorry,” whispers Anathema, giving Ezra a sheepish smile as she puts the party popper down. “He made me do it.”

Crowley glares at Anathema for a moment, then turns back again towards Ezra. “It’s gonna be _fine,”_ he says, exhaling loudly before he starts grinning again. “I’m gonna talk to Gabe about it.”

“You can’t just talk to your brother to give me leniency, Crowley,” says, staring incredulously at his fiancé. “Besides, when did you ever see Gabriel visiting you?”

Crowley’s face falls, as he sighs and flicks his gaze to the ceiling. “No, you’re right, I haven’t seen him at all. I am sorry, angel. I just wanted to do something for your birthday.”

Ezra feels bad all of a sudden, frowning as he takes Crowley’s hand into his. “I’m sorry. I do appreciate it, dear. But we do have bills. I need to go to work. We can always do this on a weekend next time.”

“Alright, I’m sorry,” Crowley says, groaning as he shifts himself on the bed and looks at Ezra again. “But at least tell me you liked it?”

“I did,” says Ezra, smiling as he moves close enough to wrap an arm around Crowley. “Honeysuckle? Whose idea were those?” he asks, inclining his head in the direction of the potted plant sitting on the bedside table. “I thought they didn’t allow flowers in the ICU wards.”

“They do, actually,” Crowley replies, clearing his throat as he blinks slowly. “They just have to not be cut. I didn’t have honeysuckle for you before, so now here they are.”

“I’m charging it from his paycheck,” Anathema says, winking mischievously at Ezra while Crowley’s not looking. “Not that he has any, I’ve fired him.”

_“Fine,”_ says Crowley, scowling. “Ask Lu for payment, then.”

“Did you really?” Ezra asks, squinting up at Anathema as a knot forms in his stomach.

“No, I didn’t,” replies Anathema, rolling her eyes as Crowley makes a face at her. “I did put him on sick leave, though.”

“And we all thank you for that,” Crowley interrupts, making a shooing motion as he sits up again. “You can leave now.”

Anathema’s mouth gapes open like a fish, crossing her arms over her chest as she stares incredulously at Crowley. “Don’t be rude, AJ,” she says, scowling. “After everything I did for you…”

“I’m kidding, Ana,” says Crowley, chuckling under his breath. “But you might want to get out before things get steamy in here.”

_“Anthony!”_ Ezra exclaims, feeling his face heat up just as Anathema makes a gagging noise.

Crowley just continues to smile, sandwiching Ezra’s hand by placing his remaining free hand over the one Ezra’s holding. “I was clearly joking, angel. Besides, I don’t think I’m up to it right now.”

“Alright, I’ve seen enough. I’m leaving,” Anathema says, raising both her hands in a defeated manner as she shakes her head. “Ezra, are you gonna be alright staying with him?”

Ezra looks at Crowley for a moment, before he turns back to Anathema. “Yes,” he replies with a nod. “We’ll be fine.”

“Why did you have to kick Anathema out anyway?” Ezra asks as he runs his hand through Crowley’s hair.

“Is it so wrong to want you for myself just this once?” says Crowley, smiling and closing his eyes like a cat basking in the sun. “There’s always someone hovering around nearby, I never get any alone time with you.”

“They do have good reason, though,” Ezra sighs, shifting so he could rest his back against the headboard. “You know I don’t know what I’ll do if something happens.”

“Run out of the room screaming your lungs off, probably,” says Crowley dryly, knitting his eyebrows together when he spots Ezra’s scowl. “I’m sorry, angel. Nothing’s going to happen to me. There’s something in the minifridge, by the way.”

Ezra tilts his head, giving Crowley a curious look. “What?”

“Just look,” Crowley sats, still blinking his eyes blearily.

Ezra hums dubiously, but stands up and does as he’s told anyway, walking across the room towards the minifridge in the corner. Slowly, he exhales through his mouth, pulling at the fridge’s handle. There’s a delicate purple box sitting in the centre of it, tied up in a ribbon with a ribbon of a lighter shade, a little heart–shaped card taped up on its lid. Ezra pulls it out of the fridge, flipping it the card to see Crowley’s looping script in red ink wishing him a happy birthday.

“Really?” Ezra says as he turns around to look at Crowley. “Isn’t this a bit excessive? You already gave me the flowers.”

“Not when it’s you,” Crowley says with a smile. “Now open it.”

Ezra returns to Crowley’s bedside, preferring to open the package next to Crowley. Crowley’s staring, feigning disinterest as Ezra undoes the elaborate tie of ribbon and removes the lid, revealing what’s inside the box.

A single, generous slice of angel cake.

_Oh._

“Do you like it?” asks Crowley, a hopeful look spread across his face.

“Do you want some?” Ezra asks back, pushing the box closer to Crowley. “Wait, is that even allowed?”

Crowley shrugs, sitting up again. “Maybe? Ana and I used to sneak sweets in the hospital all the time as teenagers, anyway.”

“Anthony…”

“It’s probably _fine.”_

Ezra sighs, giving in as he takes a bite of the cake with the plastic fork included in the box. “Alright, here,” he says, holding the fork near Crowley.

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley says, grinning at Ezra before he puts the bite of cake in his mouth. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, dear,” replies Ezra, as he goes and twirls a lock of Crowley’s hair in his finger.


	25. Freesia

Crowley jolts awake, hissing in pain as he disturbs his stitches. Suddenly, he becomes aware of the presence of someone else in the room with him. When he turns his head, Crowley sees a young woman beside him, wearing a bright blue hospital gown as she sits watching him on a wheelchair. He’s still trying to place where he’s seen her before, when she smiles at him.

“Hello, big brother.”

_Oh._

“Uri?” he says, still not quite believing his eyes. “Is that really— Why are you— _How_ are you here?”

“It’s me,” says his (no longer) baby sister, still grinning up at him. “Ezra says you’re already lucid, so here I am.”

“You’ve met him?” asks Crowley, ignoring how loudly his heart is pounding in his ears as he pushes himself up from the bed into a sitting position.

Uriel nods, in the exact same way she used to do that always made her pigtails bounce in the air. Her hair’s cropped short now, though, and Crowley forces himself not to mourn their loss all that much, as he tunes back in to what his sister’s saying.

“Yeah,” Uriel says. “He’s nice. I can see why you like him.”

“Oh, uhm…” Crowley trails off, licking at his dried–out lips. “Did you— Did he say something to you?”

“About what?” his sister asks, tilting her head to one side as she quirks up an eyebrow.

“Nothing, I—” Crowley shakes his head, then sighs as he tries to summon up a smile. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you since— How are you?”

“I’m _fine!”_ Uriel says, perking up as she gestures at herself. “A little mugging never hurt anyone.”

Crowley suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. “Uriel…”

“I am!” Uriel insists, before she winces as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Now I know where Gabriel gets the clucking from.”

“What?” Crowley asks, squinting his eyes as he stares at Uriel.

“You sound just like he does whenever he’s scolding me if he thinks I’m being reckless,” Uriel says, shrugging.

Crowley blinks, incredulous. “I _never—_ I _don’t_ sound like _Gabby._ If anything, _he_ sounds like me.”

_“Sure,”_ says Uriel with a snort. “Keep telling yourself that, R— Wait, can I call you Anthony? It’s just— It feels awkward, calling my big brother by a surname, don’t you think?”

“I— Of course,” Crowley says, smiling fondly. “Whatever you want, Uri.”

The door suddenly opens with a creak, and both siblings turn their head towards it, just in time to see their eldest brother walk in, a stupid grin plastered across his face and a hard–shelled case in his hand.

“Oh, you’re awake,” says Lucifer as he stops next to Uriel’s wheelchair.

“Of course I’m awake,” Crowley replies with a scowl, glaring through slitted eyes at their eldest brother as he adjusts himself on the bed. “What, did you want it otherwise?”

Lucifer seems to consider this for a moment. “No,” he says eventually with a shake of his head, lopsided grin still plastered on. “Just amazed you haven’t fallen asleep on Uriel yet. Come on, time to go back,” adds Lucifer, turning to Uriel.

“What, already?” Uriel says, looking up. “But I just got here — Anthony just woke up!”

“She’s right,” Crowley says, inclining his head to the side in agreement.

_“You’re_ not helping,” Lucifer shoots back, pointing a finger at Crowley before looking back at Uriel. “Come on, Uri. You need to get some rest. Doctor’s orders.”

Uriel makes a face, waving her hand at Crowley as Lucifer sighs and wheels her away.

And then Lucifer stops short in the middle of the room, turning back to face Crowley as if he’s just remembered something.

“Oh, before I forget,” says Lucifer, walking back to the edge of the hospital bed and handing Crowley the hard–shelled case. “Glasses.”

Crowley stares at the case as he grabs it, feeling it oddly familiar when he examines it between his hands. It doesn’t look new by any stretch, the entire thing fragile–feeling with age and banged up and scratched at its edges. When he opens it up, a pair of round rose–tinted glasses greet him from the inside.

“Really, Lu?” Crowley asks, glaring sideways at his brother. “I’m not twelve anymore.”

“What?” Lucifer replies, feigning innocence. “Found your spares in your room the other day.”

“Alex…” sighs Crowley with a roll of his eyes.

“James,” says Lucifer without missing a beat, staring back at him.

Uriel bursts out laughing at her brothers’ antics, and for a moment, Crowley thinks she sounds achingly similar to Gabriel.

“Look, I’ll buy you new ones when there’s actually a sun to block out, alright?” Lucifer says eventually when Uriel’s laughter dies down.

“So, never?” asks Crowley, and at Lucifer’s glare adds _“Fine,_ I’ll wear them. But you owe me.”

“Of course I do, little brother,” Lucifer replies, the same stupid grin plastered across his face again.

“They’re _pink,_ Ezra. _And_ they’ve always been too big for my face,” Crowley grumbles, adjusting the glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose _again_ before he sullenly crosses his arms over his chest. “Besides, I haven’t worn them in… forever and Lu knows that.”

Ezra hums, reaching over to help fix the glasses. “I think they look rather good on you. I like seeing your eyes,” says Ezra, smiling as he looks at Crowley. “Although… heart–shaped lenses would suit the rose colour more, don’t you think?”

Crowley’s eyes widen, staring at Ezra as his cheeks turn the same shade as his glasses. “I— What?” he says, clearing his throat. “Anyway, do you know what happened to Bentley?”

“Oh, I think your brother has her, parked in the garage of your house last I’d heard,” Ezra replies, biting at his lip as he thinks. “Why do you ask?”

“Which brother?” Crowley asks with a grimace, although he already knows Gabriel wouldn’t have. “I swear to God, if Lu leaves so much as a scratch on her…”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” says Ezra, shaking his head fondly.

“Lu taught me how to drive,” Crowley says as Ezra rolls his eyes. “So if you think I’m already a bad driver, well he’s worse. He’s going to leave a scratch on Bentley and I know it.”

“Anthony, dearest,” says Ezra with a long–suffering sigh. “Please stop fretting about your car, she’s going to be fine. Have a baklava instead. I risked my head sneaking that past the nurses’ office, you know.”

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley says with a sheepish smile as he takes a piece of the flaky pastry out of the dainty pastry box, making an appreciative moan as the baklava hits the roof of his mouth. “Oh, this is good baklava. Where did you buy it?” he asks with his mouth still full.

“Careful you don’t choke on it,” Ezra warns as he brushes a crumb off the side of Crowley’s mouth. “I’ll tell you where when you get discharged.”

“That’s—” _That’s never gonna happen,_ Crowley almost says, but that would be too cruel, so instead Crowley just pouts at Ezra. “That’s going to take so long,” he amends.

“It won’t if you focus on getting better,” Ezra replies with a frown, seemingly oblivious, and just as he finishes speaking, the door to the room opens.

Crowley’s too late in raising his head to see who drops her off, but Uriel’s by the doorway, waving at someone just out of sight before the door closes behind her.

Ezra turns to the door at the same time, and instantly smiles at the sight of Crowley’s littlest sister. “Hello, dear,” he says. “Do you need some help with that?”

Uriel looks around herself, before sighing a long–suffering sigh. “Yes, please,” she replies.

“Bit sore today, Uri?” Crowley asks before clearing his throat.

“Maybe,” says Uriel with a shrug, as Ezra parks her wheelchair next to the seat Ezra had just vacated.

“Ah,” says Crowley, not really knowing what else to say, before he remembers the pastry box and immediately nudges it towards Uriel. “Do you want some baklava?”

“Oh, uhm…” Uriel says, biting at her lower lip. “I… can’t. I’m allergic to nuts.”

“I don’t remember that,” says Crowley, blinking as he wracks his brains trying to remember since when his sister’s been allergic.

“You wouldn’t,” assures Uriel with a small smile, reclining back on the wheelchair’s backrest before suddenly sitting up straight again. “Shouldn’t have done that, I’m gonna fall off this thing. Anyway, yeah, you wouldn’t. We only found that out when I was ten.”

“Huh,” Crowley breathes out. How many more things did he miss by being stupid?

“I’ll leave you two to it, then,” says Ezra, and Crowley immediately feels awful for forgetting he’s still there. “Remind your brother to take his meds for me.”

“Hey, that’s not fair!” Crowley whines as he frowns at Ezra. “I take them without anyone reminding me to! And you don’t have to leave, we can talk with you here.”

“I’m just being thorough, dear,” Ezra replies, smiling patiently. “And I really must leave, I just dropped by before going to work.”

“Gabriel still not letting you take an extended leave?” asks Crowley, still frowning as Ezra bends down for a quick peck at his cheek, scowling at his sister when she makes a face.

Ezra shakes his head, sighing. “Not yet. Maybe eventually. Take care of yourself, alright?”

“Alright,” replies Crowley, smiling and waving his hand until Ezra’s out of sight, at which point he sighs, sinking his head back into the pillow.

“Do you want me to talk to Gabe?” Uriel asks, breaking the silence and startling Crowley just a little.

“No— No, don’t,” says Crowley, recovering himself just enough to sit up again and catch his breath. “Don’t do that, that’s just going to make him even more stubborn than he already is. You know our brother.”

Or at least Uriel does. He hasn’t seen any of his siblings other than Lu in ten years. What does he know about any of them anymore? He didn’t even know his sister had a nut allergy.

“You’re right,” Uriel says, not noticing how tense Crowley has suddenly got.

“Was it him who dropped you off? I didn’t see,” Crowley asks, immediately trying to change the subject.

“No, that was Mika,” Uriel replies, shrugging her shoulders before wincing.

“Don’t pull your stitches. It’s only going to hurt more if they have to redo them,” Crowley says as he scrunches up his face. “Wait, why is Mika here? I thought Lu said she’s busy with a case right now?”

“She’s closed that two weeks ago,” replies Uriel, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly. “She didn’t tell you?”

Crowley shakes his head, staring at the flimsy hospital blanket. “I haven’t seen her,” he sighs. “Was hoping it’s only because she’s busy, but apparently not. I guess she still hates me, huh?”

“She’ll come around,” says Uriel, leaning so she can place her head on the edge of Crowley’s bed. “Mika and Gabe probably just need more time, ‘s all.”

“So you say…” Crowley mumbles, biting at her lip. _But no one’s ever gonna fully forgive the shit I pulled for the past ten years._

But Uriel’s been visiting a lot these days, hasn’t she? Every day, in fact. Maybe. Just maybe.

“Uri?” Crowley says, slowly looking up to meet his sister’s eyes. “Why are you here?”

“Visiting you, of course,” replies Uriel, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“No, not that,” Crowley says, shaking his head. “It’s just… It feels like everyone else’s washed their hands off me,” he sighs, blinking his eyes rapidly. “So why are you still here?”

“Because you’re my big brother,” Uriel replies, maintaining eye contact with him as she smiles softly. “And I want to spend time with you.”

“Before I go permanently?” Crowley asks.

“Don’t say that!” Uriel says, her eyes widening as her voice climbs up an octave, and suddenly Crowley feels like an ass. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m sorry,” says Crowley as he offers his sister an apologetic smile. “I shouldn’t have run away. Then maybe we could’ve spent more time together.”

“We could still spend time. After you’re out of here,” Uriel says, and Crowley envies his little sister’s unbridled optimism.

“Yeah,” Crowley says simply, biting at his lip.

“And I mean,” Uriel adds, with a mischievous glint in her eyes she definitely got from Lu that makes Crowley immediately dread what she’ll say next. “If I’d known it was going to make all of you come home, then maybe I should’ve gotten myself mugged sooner.”

_“Uriel Adza!”_

He’s half–asleep, still annoyingly out of breath even though it’s been a week after he’d scared Ezra again, when his door creaks open. Crowley hesitantly cracks open an eyelid, ready to scowl at whoever’s disturbing his peace, when he realises who it is.

“Are you wearing my old band shirt?” Crowley asks, clearing his throat as he shifts on the bed, opening his eyes fully to greet his sister.

Uriel smiles from the doorway, shrugging as she closes the door behind her. “Well, it _does_ fit, and it’s spent nearly a decade unused in your closet, so I figured why not?” she says.

Crowley blinks his eyes blearily, processing his sister’s words. “Quite right,” he agrees, tilting his head. “Why are you here?”

Uriel lingers still by the door, twiddling her fingers as she frowns. “I…” she says, hesitating. “I came to say goodbye.”

Crowley blinks again, unsure if he heard her right. “What?”

“Oh, I’m…” Uriel says, still twiddling her fingers as she comes closer, sitting on the chair next to the bed. “I’m getting discharged this afternoon. Gabe’s picking me up. I was going to tell you sooner, but well…”

_“Oh,”_ says Crowley, visibly relaxing as his head sinks back into the pillow. “You could’ve started with that. I thought someone was forbidding you from visiting.”

_Like Gabriel, maybe,_ he thinks, but decides not to add.

Uriel smiles thin–lipped, in the same way Mika does when she’s nervous about something. “I don’t know,” she says. “I was afraid you’d be disappointed if I wasn’t always here to visit you from now on.”

“Why would I—” Crowley interrupts himself to clear his throat. “Why would I be disappointed? That’s good news!”

Uriel smiles, wider and more genuine, as she transfers positions to sit on Crowley’s bed, the edge of it sinking under her weight. “You think so?” she asks.

“Yeah!” Crowley nods, sitting up and shifting himself closer to Uriel. “That means you’re getting better. And it’s been what? Two weeks? It’s about time.”

“A month, actually. It’s almost July,” Uriel says, making a face as she puts her head on Crowley’s shoulder. “I have so much homework to catch up on.”

Crowley chuckles under his breath, placing his chin on top of Uriel’s head. He hasn’t done this since she was little, but Uriel still hums at the action all the same, the way she’s always done before. “I’ll teach you, don’t worry about it,” says Crowley with a slight smile.

Uriel looks up, smiling back at Crowley. “Thanks, Anthony,” she says, wrapping an arm around him into a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. If you want to know what Crowley’s glasses look like, they’re basically [this.](https://twitter.com/temporalsilence/status/1171703556547710977)


	26. Magnolia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to post this right now because there's a super typhoon in the Philippines right now and there's bound to be some outages. (Strongest one _on Earth_ in 2020 🙃🙃🙃)
> 
> Anyway, this is set around the middle of last chapter.

“Here’s to another case closed,” Bee says, grinning as she pops open the bottle of merlot, pouring the wine into a flute before raising the glass up in cheers. “And we can all finally get some decent sleep again.”

Michael rolls her eyes, taking the flute from Bee’s waiting hand as she smiles wryly. She doesn’t usually drink, not really, but after everything that’s happened in the past few days, this seems as good an excuse as any other.

“It’s not like I could’ve closed this case sooner without you,” says Michael, taking a tentative sip from the glass, letting the fruity aftertaste linger on her tongue.

“Least you’re giving credit where it’s due,” Bee replies, tilting her head to the side before downing the contents of her own glass. “I did half the legwork on that case for you.”

Michael snorts in reply, running a finger around the lip of the wine flute to create a ringing sound. “There’s a reason why I have you as a partner, you know,” she says.

“Partner–at–law, or…?” Bee trails off, wearing an impish grin on her face.

“Stop teasing, you know what I mean,” Michael says, elbowing Bee in the ribs and knocking the breath out of her lungs, as Michael tries to ignore the sudden heat on her cheeks.

“So,” says Bee, swirling the dregs around. “How’s everything at the hospital?”

Michael pushes her glass to the side, sighing as she grimaces. “Uriel’s fine,” she says. “She’s completely back to herself, it’s like nothing happened.”

“You Christchurches are all like that, anyway, always bouncing back to normal so fast, it’s almost inhuman,” Bee says with a snort. “But we both know she’s not who I meant.”

“If you’re referring to Ra— Crowley, it’s better if you ask Lu,” replies Michael, reaching for the glass again to finish off the rest of the wine.

“You’re still refusing to see him?” Bee asks, raising an eyebrow as she tilts her head to fully face Michael.

“It’s… complicated,” she sighs, staring into the bottom of the flute, as she tries to find her words. “And besides, you can’t lecture me about this, you haven’t been in to see him either.”

“You know I’m waiting for Dagon to come home first,” Bee shoots back. “And _I’m_ not his sister, you are.”

“What would I even say to him?” Michael asks, leaning forward to rest her head on the edge of the table. What she’d give to crawl into a warm bed and get out of this conversation.

Bee turns her eyes heavenward, exhaling loudly. “You have ten years’ worth of complaints,” she replies. “You can start with that.”

“What, with the fact that he left and made us all believe he’s dead?” asks Michael, dryly. “I’m not supposed to agitate him, you know.”

“I’m not saying you agitate him, I’m just saying shake off the genetic uptightness for a second and actually talk to him for once,” Bee says with a sigh, growing more exasperated by the syllable. “At least, before you lose the chance again permanently.”

Michael pushes herself upright, the chair scraping across the hardwood floor as she stands and leaves the kitchen table.

“Where are you going?” Bee says, wincing at the sound of the scraping as she turns around to follow Michael with her eyes.

“To sleep,” says Michael, waving her hand without looking back as she continues to walk away. Anywhere’s better than this conversation, after all. “And I’m going to sleep on the couch, so have fun sleeping alone.”

“Hey, maybe I will,” Bee yells back, as Michael turns around the corner and gets out of earshot.

Michael is still mulling over Bee’s words, half–listening to Uriel’s usual bubbly chatter as she pushes her sister on a hospital–issue wheelchair, when they turn around a corner and she realises something is amiss.

Why are there people rushing into their brother’s room?

Michael freezes in place, staring blankly at the looming hallway before her, her heart pounding loudly in her ears as she keeps a white–knuckle grip on the handles of the wheelchair, when a simple question drags her back to reality.

“Mye? Why’d we stop?”

Uriel is looking up directly at her, all guileless and innocent. She hasn’t seemed to notice yet the commotion lying ahead of them.

Michael breathes out slowly through her lips, suppressing the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. Should she tell Uriel?

Best not.

She turns the wheelchair around, careful to avoid any chance that Uriel might see anything, as she turns their course back to Uriel’s room.

“Mika, _stop,”_ Uriel screeches, holding onto the wheelchair’s handrails. “Where are we going?”

“Back to your room, I forgot something,” Michael says, lying through her teeth, still pushing the wheelchair.

“No, you didn’t, you have your handbag with you,” Uriel points out, looking up at her again. “What’s really happening?”

“We can’t go to his room right now,” replies Michael, doing her best to keep her voice from wavering.

_“We_ can’t, or _you_ can’t?” asks Uriel, narrowing her eyes. “Because it’s alright if you don’t want to talk to Anthony yet, but not letting me visit is rude, you know.”

“Don’t sass at me, Uriel Adza,” Michael scolds, before biting at her tongue. They’re almost by Uriel’s door, she can still keep stalling. “I— We just can’t, alright? Trust me on this.”

As Michael parks the wheelchair next to the door to open it, she catches Uriel get up from it out of the corner of her eye.

_“Uriel,”_ Michael warns, barely managing to get a grip on Uriel’s wrist before her sister could escape. “Where are you going?”

Uriel tugs her wrist free, glaring back. “If you don’t want to see our brother, then I can walk myself there.”

“Uriel,” Michael sighs, attempting to reach for her sister’s hand to hold, before deciding to keep her hands to herself instead. “Uriel, please listen to me. We can’t go there right now. We _can’t_, because…” She pauses, taking a shaky breath. “Because Crowley’s in trouble right now.”

“What?” Uriel asks in a small voice. “I don’t unders— What do you mean?”

“You know about his condition, Uri,” says Michael, feeling like shit for not knowing how to explain this to her.

“Then wouldn’t he need us there with him more?” Uriel asks, still holding her ground.

“We can’t do anything for him there, Uriel,” Michael says, biting her lip as she shakes her head.

Uriel clenches her hands at her sides, dropping her glare to stare at the floor instead. “How are you even sure about it?” she asks.

“Because I’ve seen it before,” says Michael, stepping closer to Uriel. “And I know what it’s like. I’m not letting you see that, Uriel. I _won’t.”_

Uriel sniffles, running into Michael’s arms. Michael hasn’t realised her baby sister’s almost as tall as she is now, and it catches her by surprise.

“Do you think he’s going to be okay?” mumbles Uriel as she rests her head on her shoulder.

Michael presses a hand on her sister’s hair as she rubs circles on Uriel’s back even before she could start crying. “He’ll be fine, Uri,” she replies, though she doesn’t believe it herself. “I promise.”

When she gets Uriel settled into an uneasy sleep, Michael slips out of her sister’s room, trekking her way back to the hallway that leads towards Crowley’s.

The hallway feels too quiet now.

Michael doesn’t like it one bit.

Ezra’s pacing around the waiting room when she gets there, like a restless horse cooped up in a stall for too long. A knock on the door from Michael distracts him away from his thoughts, and as Ezra looks up, Michael recognizes in his face the same terrified expression she’s worn on her own face since her brother turned seventeen.

“How is he?” Michael asks, sinking into a nearby bench and motioning for Ezra to do the same.

“I— He’s unconscious,” sighs Ezra, sitting on the space next to her as he hides his face behind his hands.

Michael breathes a quiet sigh of relief, her eyes turning towards the ceiling. “What happened?”

“He—” Ezra says, choking on a sob before shakily breathing out through his mouth as he tries to start again. “Arrhythmia episode. I’d forgot what they’d called it. I thought— We were just playing a board game, and then— He said he couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know what to do, I—”

Ezra inhales sharply, twisting around the ring on his finger, as Michael hesitates to reach out.

“I really thought he was getting better,” Ezra says softly, furiously brushing away a stray tear that had begun to form at the corner of his eye.

Suddenly, it all makes terrifying sense.

“Lu hasn’t told you,” states Michael, fighting the urge to bite at her lower lip.

“Told me what?” Ezra says, looking up at her.

Michael sighs, closing her eyes for a split second before opening them again. “His heart is failing, Ezra,” she admits, as the memory of Lucifer’s frantic phone call that night flashes before her eyes. “We’re all just praying for a donor at this point.”

Ezra’s face crumples visibly. “How— How long does he have?”

“Few years, at most,” Michael whispers. “Not nearly enough time to make up for what we’ve lost.”

_And you’ve already whittled away too much of it by dithering on about seeing him,_ her thoughts supply unhelpfully, as Michael bites at the inside of her cheek hard enough to make it bleed.

“I see,” says Ezra, shutting his eyes as he chews on his bottom lip to keep it from wobbling. “Does he know?”

“I don’t know if Luci’s already told him,” Michael says, shaking her head. “But if he _does_ know, I think he would’ve told you himself.”

“You can’t be sure about that,” Ezra says. “Crowley did hide everything from me before.”

Michael lays a hand on top of Ezra’s, squeezing at it. “He promised you, didn’t he?” she asks. “My brother never makes the same mistake twice, trust me.”

Ezra sighs again, turning his gaze to the tiled floor under them. “So this would just keep on happening from now on, huh,” he says, mumbling under his breath.

“Yes,” replies Michael, not really knowing what else to say.

“I should— I should probably go check in on him,” Ezra says, clearing his throat as he makes to stand up. “He hates waking up alone, it’s only going to make him panic.”

“No, I’ll stay with him,” says Michael, standing up to get on Ezra’s way before he could leave. “You should go home for now.”

“I really mu—”

“I insist,” Michael interrupts, giving Ezra a small smile. “I can watch over him, it’s fine. Go home. You’ve had quite a day, you need the rest.”

Ezra stares at her, wide–eyed, as his bottom lip continues to quiver. Finally, he exhales shakily, directing his gaze back to the floor. “I should do that, yes. Thank you,” Ezra says, nodding.

He didn’t change much.

There are more lines on his face now, and there’s already some wisps of silver threaded into his hair, but her brother still looks the same to her as the day he’d left, down to the peaceful expression he only ever has when he’s asleep.

But he’s paler, too, an oxygen mask obscuring his face as he struggles to breathe even while unconscious, the monitor beeping too fast for her liking.

Mika’s never seen him this ill before.

Her brother stirs, inhaling sharply as his eyes flutter open. Mika doesn’t think Crowley would recognise her at first, until he turns his hazel eyes towards her and an expression like that of a kicked puppy immediately crosses his face.

“Mi—” he starts, then interrupts himself, switching inflections as if remembering the last thing she’d said to him, as he moves to take the oxygen mask off. “Michael? Where’s Ezra?”

“I sent him home,” Mika replies, placing a hand over her brother’s to make the oxygen mask stay in place, only removing it when her brother removes his. “He’s a bit shaken right now, he needs the time to think.”

Crowley sighs, shutting his eyes. “I don’t remember what happened,” he admits.

“You had an arrhythmia episode,” Mika says with a thin–lipped smile. _And I thought it was something far worse,_ she almost adds, but instead, she just says “Uriel’s worried about you, too.”

“And you?” he asks.

Mika nods her head. “And me,” she says. “Lu didn’t tell you what’s wrong this time either, did he?”

“No,” says Crowley, taking a shaky breath. “What is it?”

“Oh, _Raph…”_ sighs Mika, before she catches herself and prays her brother forgives her for her momentary lapse. “Crowley. Your heart’s failing, little brother.”

“Oh,” says her brother, suddenly avoiding eye contact. “I was right, then.”

“You figured it out?” Mika asks, as she rubs her palm against the elbow of her opposite arm.

“I went to medical school, Michael,” Crowley says, taking a deep breath. “And besides, we all knew this was coming. Why are you here?”

“To see my little brother, of course,” replies Mika, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“So I really had to die first before you’d come and see me again, huh,” says Crowley, still avoiding looking at her.

“You didn’t die, Crowley,” Mika says, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. “At least, Ezra didn’t say so.”

“Is that so?” he asks, his breaths still heaving.

“Why didn’t you let Lu tell me anything?” she asks in return, biting at the inside of her cheek, unable to keep her curiosity away any longer.

“I just—” Crowley says, pausing for breath as he presses a hand to his chest. “I don’t know.”

_Your brother’s not a witness on the stand, _her thoughts remind her something fierce. _You shouldn’t harass him when he can barely breathe still._

It still doesn’t stop the next words from coming out of her mouth.

“Didn’t you trust me?”

Crowley shakes his head, inhaling sharply before he’s seized by a sudden coughing fit. “It’s not that,” he says when he recovers himself. “It’s just— I didn’t want to see you cry anymore. I don’t want to be a burden to you again.”

“But you’re _not_ a burden, Crowley,” Mika says, chewing at her lip. “You’re my _brother.”_

Her brother’s gaze snaps back towards her, his eyes wide open, and for a moment Mika thinks she’s inadvertently given her brother another episode, when Crowley’s breath hitches, his lip wobbling uncontrollably.

“I—” he starts, swallowing back a sob as he breathes heavily. “I am so, _so_ sorry. I shouldn’t— I should’ve said something, I—”

He’s heaving again, and Mika has to lean forward, shushing her brother gently to stop him from crying, rubbing at his shoulder until Crowley seems to be breathing easier, ignoring the way the beeping seems to be going faster now.

“Hey,” she whispers, brushing her fingers through his hair, the way she’s done a dozen times before. “It’s alright. It’s all going to be alright. I forgive you. Just don’t do it again, okay?”

“I don’t think I can do it again,” Crowley says, scrunching up his face as he stares at her, still struggling to take a full breath. “Not when I’m here and you’re all watching me like a hawk.”

“Quite right, little brother,” she says, smiling a small smile.


	27. Gorse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are pleased to inform you that this is a horse fic now.

The ride back to the manor is relatively quiet, with Uriel still being groggy from the nap she’d taken next to Raphael in his hospital bed. By the time Gabriel had woken her up and signed the necessary paperwork for her discharge from the hospital, Raphael had been half–asleep, as she was saying goodbye and promising to be back the next day. 

Which brings them to now.

Uriel leans her head out the window, watching the buildings and people pass by under the overcast sky. Gabriel has a near white–knuckle grip on the steering wheel while they sit stuck in traffic, hoping she doesn’t bring anything up.

“You really should talk to him,” she finally says after minutes of silence, wincing as she sits up straight. She’s still sore from the surgeries, she still has stitches and bandages in place with the warnings from her doctors and surgeons, but she’s very much herself; he can tell, with the way she’s looking at him. “But you’re allowed to be angry, too.” 

“I don’t expect you to understand,” says Gabriel, tapping a finger to the edge of the steering wheel.

Uriel huffs, rolling her eyes, and gingerly leaning her head against the window while facing him. He bites back the urge to tell her to sit properly.

“Of course you don’t,” she mutters.

He shoots her a sideways glance, cursing a higher being for the standstill traffic they’ve encountered. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

Uriel scoffs. “I think you’re the one that doesn’t get it,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious answer.

This time, it’s Gabriel who rolls his eyes. “I don’t—”

“I was ignored by Dad my entire life,” she snaps. “Because I wasn’t his. I lived with Mum being a fragment of who she was after Anthony left. There’s a lot of shit you don’t know—”

“Language,” Gabriel scolds.

Uriel glares daggers at him in reply. “There’s a lot you don’t know. And that’s fine, but it wouldn’t kill you to try to understand, or at least talk to him, because he wants to talk to you.”

They spend the rest of the drive in uncomfortable silence while Gabriel drives and Uriel flips between texting and looking out the window, her expression neutral. 

“I will talk to Raphael when I—”

“His name’s Anthony, stop being a prick about it.”

Gabriel sighs, finally putting the car in park as they pull up right outside the manor’s doors. There’s a tense moment where they both just sit in silence in the car. 

“I—”

“You’re just like Dad, you know,” she snaps as she gets out of the car, slamming the door behind her. “Even though you try to act like you’re not.”

Gabriel’s blood runs cold as he follows suit, slamming his door just as hard. _“Don’t.”_

It’s not a request. There’s a moment where they’re looking over the hood of the car at each other, two sides of a very different coin.

“What are you gonna—”

“Don’t you _ever_ fu—” He catches himself, but there’s a moment that Uriel looks smug (_like she’s being proven right, because how many times has he been told this exact sentence, in this exact manner?)_. “Don’t you _ever _say that again. Now, go inside. You need to get some rest.”

She almost argues. There’s a moment where she opens her mouth to respond, but instead she just opens the door to the backseat to grab the clear plastic bag labelled _Patient’s Belongings_ in big blue letters before storming into the house, slamming the heavy doors as best as she can manage.

Gabriel takes a few deep breaths before running a hand through his hair (which he’s pretty sure has started greying prematurely — well, more than it has been the past year or so) and steeling himself to go inside.

When he goes in, Uriel’s already absconded from the foyer — presumably, she’s already gone up to her room. Gabriel gazes down the hallway, looking at the frame that hangs above the sitting room’s fireplace, still covered by a drop cloth. Something clenches in his chest (and _oh_, the irony of that) and he opts to quell the feeling as best he can as he turns to the boot rack by the door, grabbing the pair of black Wellingtons on the bottom. He doesn’t grab a bag for them — to hell with getting the floor of his car dirty.

And he’s out of the house and back into his car as fast as he’d been in.

Gabriel pulls into the drive at the front of the sizable building, taking a deep breath to fill his lungs with the smell of grass and hay. He reaches to the floorboard of the passenger seat next to him, toeing off his shoes and throwing them to the other side of the car while pulling on the boots. He leaves his keys on the seat as he gets out of the car, making his way to the stable.

“Aye, Gabriel,” a man calls, leaning against a stack of hay as he watches a younger boy — a new hire, if Gabriel had to guess — stack bales near the back wall.

“Hello George,” he says politely, giving a nod to the stable hand. The boy looks nervous, but keeps up his task. “Is she inside today?”

He nods, going back to stacking the bales with his young charge. “Yep,” he answers. “She refused to go out. The older she gets, the more difficult. No wonder, considering she’s yours.”

The boy freezes, looking terrified at the casualness of the conversation, but Gabriel just laughs and keeps on.

“She’s allowed to be, she’s nearly thirty,” Gabriel jokes back.

This seems to put the new hire at ease, but he’s still watching carefully as he continues.

“Let me know if you need anything, kid!” George says, waving Gabriel off before walking off to, presumably, haul more bales from the shed next to the stable.

“Will do!” Gabriel calls back, continuing down the aisle.

It’s been a while since he’s come to visit, with work being so busy and the situation with his brother, but being back puts him at ease. He passes the office, the door ajar, and catches a glance of the pictures lining the wall — Mika at her first competition, a blue ribbon pinned to her blazer, a toddler–aged Uriel laying across the back of her gelding, and a rare picture of Raph on Sirius mid–jump at an event. Gabriel elects to ignore the last photo as he continues on his way down to the last stall.

Gabriel lets out a whistle, the response an immediate shuffle of straw and the sound of a body shaking itself off. Just as he trails his hand along the metal nameplate that reads _Peachy Keen On You,_ the mare comes to the edge of her stall’s door to do her best to stretch to reach his arm.

“Hey girl,” he says, taking the few steps to let her nuzzle at his hand. “Heard you’ve been causing problems.”

She snorts in response, going immediately to his pocket in search of treats while he scratches the space between her eyes.

“No, not today, sorry.”

He uses his other hand to unlatch the gate, squeezing himself into the stall before she can make a great escape. 

Whoever has been taking care of her has been spoiling her, considering the generous amount of bedding and the full hay net. Gabriel, of course, would expect no less for her, even if she could be rather temperamental — she’d never had an attitude for him, though, in all the years they’d been together. Even now, she’s nudging at his hands to encourage him to keep paying attention to her.

“I know, it’s been a little while,” he apologizes, rubbing her ears. “Work got busy and… other things happened.”

_Your brother showing up after being dead — presumed dead — for ten years is more important than work, _he argues with himself.

He sighs, sitting down in the soft straw piled high in her stall, resting his head on his hands.

Peaches nudges at his head, blowing air out at him in her own sigh. When he doesn’t respond, instead winding his hands tighter in his hair, she ungracefully settles down next to him, rubbing her head against his shoulder. It’s enough to get him distracted for a while, letting her rest her head against him for pets and attention.

Later, though he doesn’t notice, footsteps approach and stop outside the stall door.

“Thought I’d find you out here,” Mika says, startling Gabriel out of the thinking he’d been doing.

He scowls, crossing his arms, but not moving from his spot in the stall with Peaches’s head lying across his lap, nudging his hand with her nose when he stops stroking her. “What, did Uriel send you after me? Or did _Crowley?”_ he bites back.

“Neither, actually,” she replies. “I was here to check on Sirius.”

Suddenly, Gabriel feels like an ass. “Oh,” he says, looking down as he twists strands of the mare’s forelock between his fingers. “How is she?”

“Same as always — managed to nip me when I went in to check her water,” Mika responds. “You know how she is this time of year. The heat gets them irritated, and she’s an old mare.”

There’s silence, for a moment, just Mika and Gabe (and Peaches, who’s growing more annoyed at the interruption of the attention she’s being paid), before Gabe coughs.

“Does Raph know that she’s still around?” he asks. “He’d… _she’d_ probably perk up some with seeing him, y’know.”

Mika’s mouth curls up into a partial smile, while Gabriel scowls at a piece of hay stuck in the mare’s mane that persists in staying put despite the effort he puts into untangling it.

“He doesn’t know, but I bet he would. Maybe when he’s doing a bit better. He did ask me about Dog, though,” she says.

“Did you tell him Dog’s my cat now?” Gabe asks, raising an eyebrow while Mika shakes her head. “Or that in his old age, he’s gotten even prissier?”

“Absolutely not,” Mika tells him, leaning against the stall door. “You’re not planning on sneaking him into the hospital again, are you?”

“I’m not ten anymore, Michael,” he retorts sharply, immediately feeling bad for snapping at her. It’s not as if she’s known this whole time — that quarrel is with Lu.

He opts to keep petting Peaches’s neck, giving her gentle scratches where her mane would normally fall. He’d opted to keep it longer than regulation–length crop since she wasn’t showing anymore, letting it fall to about half its full length. “Sorry. I’m just…” 

“I know,” she says softly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Mika rests her arms on the gate of the stall, leaning against it. She takes a deep breath. “It’s not his either, you know.”

Gabriel doesn’t say anything for a while, opting to turn his efforts into plaiting pieces of his mare’s mane. He’s glad he’s kept it longer; he likes being distracted, with the nice texture and repetitive motion and—

“Gabe?” Mika asks, and he startles out of the moment.

“I’m fine,” he says quickly. Mika doesn’t look convinced. “Anyway, how’s Sirius?”

“Haven’t really checked yet, I just passed her to make sure she kept her wraps on and to make sure her water was clean. Would you like to tag along down the hall?”

Peach seems to get the message, shifting to stand up and shake herself off, subsequently getting bedding in Gabriel’s hair. Gabriel’s quick behind her, brushing his trousers off and leaving the stall to follow Mika down the stable corridor and down a separate hall to get to the elderly mare’s stall.

Sirius is waiting when they get there, rubbing her neck against the gate to scratch an itch. Mika approaches her, scratching under her chin and behind her ears.

“Hey again old lady,” she teases, pulling a peppermint from her coat pocket to offer. Sirius takes it readily, crunching on the treat while Mika enters the stall, leaning down to take the green wraps off and run her hands down her front leg.

“Anything wrong?” Gabe asks, stroking Sirius’s nose.

“Nothing tender,” Mika replies, moving to the other side. “Or swollen. Seems like the stall rest and the wraps have helped, she’ll go back out to the paddock this week.”

Gabriel hums. “At least someone’s healing well,” he mutters.

Mika raises her eyebrow. “Uriel’s doing pretty well if she’s been yelling at you,” she retorts.

Gabriel wants to cross his arms, but Sirius is serious about her nose pets. “She’s not who I’m talking about.”

“You can’t be angry forever,” Mika says quietly. “It’s not healthy, Gabriel.”

He huffs and rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why you’re _not_,” he says quickly. “With everything he’s put us — put _you_ — through.”

“Gabriel—”

_“He left us!” _he finally snaps, taking a step back. His hands are shaking. His hands shouldn’t be shaking. “He— We loved him and he _left us_, left me, and—”

_Stop your whining, boy, _his father’s voice says at the back of his mind. He crosses his arms protectively, one hand gripping the fabric of his shirt. Everything is wrong, nothing is right and everything is _complicated_—

“Hey,” Mika says, stepping out of the stall. “Breathe for me, can— hey, Gabe, can I touch you?”

He shakes his head.

“Alright, that’s okay. Take a deep breath for me.”

“I’m—”

“You’re not fine, and that’s alright, but take a breath.”

He glares at her, but inhales for five and exhales for seven. The next few he takes are smaller, but steady.

“That’s it, easy now. Couple more now.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a horse,” he says sheepishly, taking a small step forward, hesitant for a moment.

“You’re just about as flighty as some,” she jokes back.

She just barely opens her arms, but Gabriel stamps down the momentary discomfort in favour of a hug.

Mika hums, arms around his shoulders. “When was the last time you’ve had physical human contact?”

“...A while,” he admits. “Especially this kind. The nice kind.”

Mika says nothing, rubbing her hand against his shoulder. “If you need anyone to blame, you should blame _him,”_ she says darkly. “You know the only reason Crowley ran away was because of him.”

But Gabriel doesn’t want to think further about their father. “And he left me to deal with it instead,” he says, his voice small.

Mika sighs. “He couldn’t have known, Gabe, you know that,” she replies. “He left me too, you know. Left Lu to clean up the messes — or, well, he left Lu to do his best to protect the rest of us and nearly get arrested for murder in the process.”

Gabriel hums, but says nothing. They stand like that for a few minutes, Gabriel hunched over to stay in the hug.

“I don’t know what to say to him,” Gabriel says, finally pulling away from the safety of his sister’s arms. He brushes himself off out of force of habit, trying to regain his composure.

“You don’t have to,” she says, taking his hand. “You just have to talk to him.”


	28. Aloe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :>

There’s a hand shoving its way through the crack between the lift doors, and Gabriel hits a button to fully open them again, only to immediately regret his decision. Ezra Fell rushes into the lift, utterly dishevelled like he’d just rolled out of bed while breathing heavily, avoiding looking at Gabriel as he stands on the space next to him while the doors close with a sharp ding. It’s fine, it’s not as if Gabriel wants to pay him any attention either.

He’ll just have to make a mental note to dock Fell’s paycheck for excessive tardiness later.

The atmosphere in the sales department hums with tension as soon as the lift doors open, and Gabriel can feel the eyes of half the room on him as he walks towards his office, the other half settling on Fell as he takes a seat in his own cubicle.

He tries not to let the stares bother him, he knows what they say behind his back, after all.

There’s no steaming cup of takeaway coffee waiting for him on his desk, just that photo of him and Raph that he really needs to flip down, and it takes Gabriel a moment to remember why. Oh, that was right, Sarah had taken her maternity leave last week, though Gabe doesn’t recall signing the forms after everything that happened. It’s fine, he can go through the rest of the workday without coffee, anyway.

As it turns out, Gabriel _can’t_ go through the workday without coffee. So Gabriel has no choice but to suffer through the indignity of coming to the break room and enduring everyone’s chatter as he goes to grab a cup of coffee.

Dash in, dash out. If only it were that easy.

Gabriel hears the voices of someone gossiping even before he reaches the break room.

“—uld leave off the poor man, didn’t his fiancé just get hospitalised with a heart attack? Of course he’s distracted.”

“What, you _want_ to bear the brunt of the boss’s frustrations instead? You know his sister’s also in the hospital right now.”

“Psh. Miss Uriel’s already been discharged, he’s no reason to be cranky. You ask me, he’s just trying to prove he’s exactly like his father.”

Gabriel breathes out slowly, stuffing his hands inside his pockets so no one could see they were shaking as he walks into the break room with loud, deliberate strides.

“I don’t pay you to gossip by the coffee pot during office hours,” Gabriel says, glaring at everyone in the break room.

He doesn’t know who these two employees are. Must be Sandalphon’s new hires. Both of them look pointedly away, skittering away like barn mice to clear a path for him as Gabriel approaches the coffee maker.

“Sorry, sir,” one of them says sheepishly before they both file out of the break room.

_But they’re right, though,_ Gabriel thinks when he’s finally alone in the room. Maybe he _is_ turning into their father.

Gabriel takes his hand out of his pocket to grab at a mug. It’s still shaking. He grasps at it with his other hand to make it stop, pursing his lips to breathe out slowly.

Maybe it’s time he went and talked to Raph.

Gabriel knows the floor plan of the wards by heart now, although heaven knows he’s done his best to avoid stepping anywhere near its vicinity for the past ten years. There’s always been too many memories within these walls, and never a good time to dwell on them.

Until now.

He stops short of turning the doorknob to his brother’s room. Is he even doing the right thing? Raph’s avoided all of them for ten years for a reason, and Gabriel isn’t sure if he wants to know whether he’s one of those.

Gabriel bites at his lip, exhaling slowly as he pushes open the door just enough to see inside without being seen.

Raph seems to be asleep, lying on his side with his back to the door such that Gabriel can’t see his face. Ezra Fell’s here, smiling as he combs his fingers through Raph’s hair. Logically, Gabriel knows Fell _should_ be here, he’s Raph’s fiancé after all; but it’s still galling how Ezra Fell seems to be everywhere Gabriel looks nowadays.

Fell’s smile grows wider and fonder, like he’s trying not to laugh at a particularly bad joke, as he pats at Raph’s hand without the IV line before he stands up, brushing at the lint on his trousers. Gabriel moves away from the door, standing to the side of it where he can’t easily be seen, when it seems like Fell’s about to leave.

He starts shaking for some reason — not just his hands this time, but what feels like his entire body. His knees wobble like he’s a gangly teenager again. He’s definitely not cold, and he’s not even really _angry_, but there’s emotion in there somewhere and it makes him want to run and hide. The longer he sits idle, the more it makes itself into anger just by proxy — he knows it’s not Ezra he should be mad at, and he knows it’s not Raphael either, but the person he’s really mad at is dead and has been for years, so this is the next best thing he can direct it to.

_Not a healthy coping mechanism,_ Uriel’s voice says at the back of his mind. He crosses his arms, squeezing his arms hard to try to bring him back in the moment. Steadies his breathing, tries to calm himself down every way he knows how.

By the time Ezra Fell’s blond head pokes out through the door, Gabriel’s leaning against the wall, doing his best to regain his composure and remain aloof, pretending he hadn’t just been a voyeur to an intimate moment (_and had a budding meltdown for no apparent reason, _but to him that’s neither here nor there).

Fell looks surprised when he catches sight of Gabriel, the bright smile immediately disappearing from his face, replaced by a wide–eyed expression like that of a deer caught in the headlights. The same face he’d seen his brothers and sister make when they were growing up, the same face _he_ made if he ran into his father on a particularly bad night. 

Gabriel turns his head to face Fell, keeping his expression neutral as he regards Fell without a word.

“Sir,” says Ezra Fell with a tremble in his voice, fiddling with the ring on his finger, pointedly looking down on the tiled floor and not at Gabriel.

“Fell,” Gabriel says in turn, sticking both hands in his pockets and sighs aloud as he approaches Fell, stopping short in front of his employee, towering over him.

_Just like your father_, Gabriel says to himself. He spares a hand to tug at his tie before he represses the action, firmly shoving his hand back in his pocket.

“I—” Fell stutters, before clearing his throat. “Are you here to visit your brother then, sir?”

“That’s none of your business,” says Gabriel sharply, still looking down on Fell. He can only imagine how he looks right now. A mirror image from two decades ago, the backdrop of a hospital replaced with an office and a stern father holding an acceptance letter that he got to before Gabriel could. As if he’d known all along. 

Suddenly, he’s seized by a thought. What if _Ezra Fell’s_ known all along? What if they’ve just been laughing behind his back for the last ten years? How much of this did Raph plan with him? Was this the setup all along, because Raphael was tired of dealing with him and his own shortcomings?

Gabriel clenches his fist, if only to keep his hands from shaking again.

“I was here to talk to you, actually,” Gabriel says, adjusting the folds on his cuffs as he affects a disinterest air. “The company has decided that we need to let you go. We simply can’t justify keeping you around any further, with your constant tardiness and absences, and the fact that you haven’t been meeting your quota in weeks.”

“I— _What?”_

“You can expect your separation check in the mail,” says Gabriel, turning his back to Fell as he walks away. Coming at all was a bad idea, he should never have come in the first place, Mika was wrong—

He hears the door burst open behind him, and for a moment Gabriel thinks that Fell had just gone back into the room to complain at Raph.

And then he hears a voice that chills Gabriel to his core and stops him in his tracks.

_“Gabriel Henry Christchurch.”_

Gabriel turns around slowly, facing his brother for the first time in ten years. Raph’s leaning against his IV pole, breathing heavily as he looks at Gabriel with so much contempt in his eyes. The same way he used to look at—

He’s never seen Raphael look at _him _like this before.

“Raphael?” says Gabriel, his voice impossibly small.

“How dare you?” Raphael asks, his glare cold and unwavering as he gasps for breath before continuing. “Don’t you _dare _drag Ezra into this. Your quarrel is with _me,_ Gabriel.”

“Oh, stop assuming everything is about you, Raphael,” scoffs Gabriel. “This has nothing to do with you.”

Raphael’s eyes grow wider with those words, his breaths coming in fits as the hand resting on the IV pole shakes. “How could— I didn’t—”

And then, Raphael takes in a sudden sharp breath, his eyes rolling into his head as he crumples to the floor, Ezra Fell rushing to catch him.

Gabriel runs off in the opposite direction, alerting the charge nurse before he escapes to the parking complex, hitting his head against the backrest of the driver’s seat as he chews at his lip till it’s bloody.

_What has he done now?_

Gabriel wakes up to an incessant ringing of the doorbell and a face full of fluffy cat tail. He groans, throwing off the layers of duvets piles on top of him, flinching as he switches on the nightstand lamp.

“Do you think you can get off me?” says Gabriel in a raspy voice, reaching over as he scratches at the back of Dog’s ear.

Dog turns around to face him, hitting Gabriel in the face with his tail again, glaring at Gabriel the same way Raph did just hours ago before he jumps off Gabriel’s chest and runs off to who knows where.

Gabriel sighs, shrugging on a robe over his pyjamas as he walks with shuffling steps to answer the door.

“I turned off my phone for a reason, you know,” Gabriel tells whoever’s ringing the doorbell as he rubs his hand over his eyelids.

“What the _hell,_ Gabriel Christchurch.”

Gabriel abruptly stops rubbing at his eyes, letting his hand drop to his side as Michael glares at him, her nostrils flaring as she stands by the doorway like some sort of avenging angel.

“He ratted me out, didn’t he?” Gabriel asks, sighing as he hunches his shoulders and closes the door of his flat behind him.

“Ratted y— Crowley’s _unconscious _right now,” says Michael, waving her arms around in frustration. “Ezra’s gone all to pieces because of what you’ve done. Whatever possessed you to try and fire him _outside of our brother’s hospital room?”_

Gabriel folds his arms over his chest, meeting his sister’s eyes. “Just because Raph can pass out on command doesn’t automatically mean he can win every argument, Michael.”

He’s pretty sure it takes her a moment to process what he just said, based on the look on her face. “Gabriel, you almost killed him,” Michael says in silent fury, furrowing her brows as she glares at Gabriel with accusing eyes. “He _just _had an arrhythmia episode last week, and then you go and give him another one when his heart’s too weak to withstand it right now.”

Gabriel chews at his lip, suddenly feeling guilty. “I hadn’t known about that,” he mumbles, staring at the floor.

“Well, now you do,” Michael spits out. “And who insinuated that Ezra’s going to pay for the hospital bills in the first place?”

“I didn’t—”

_“Apologise,”_ Michael cuts in sharply. “To both of them. And if something like this ever happens again…”

She doesn’t finish what she’s saying, instead letting the tense silence carry her point across.

“I know,” says Gabriel, nodding as he unclenches his jaw.

_“Good,”_ Michael says through gritted teeth, walking away (_leaving like everyone else has,_ his mind venomously supplies) before Gabriel could even invite her inside.

Gabriel had hoped that his brother would be asleep when he visits, but as he opens the door to his CCU room, he is greeted by Raph’s steely gaze, sitting upright and staring Gabriel down as he continuously gasps for breath. It’s as if he’s been expecting him. 

“Raph?” Gabriel says, biting at his lip as he shuts the door behind him.

Raph says nothing, looking away as he inhales sharply.

“Raph, please,” Gabriel tries again, pinching at the back of his hand as he tries to stop himself from fidgeting. It doesn’t work and it only makes him more nervous. “Say something.”

“I hope you’re happy now,” Raph finally says, still avoiding looking at Gabriel. “You’ve always wanted me gone, right? I know Dad did.”

“I—” replies Gabriel, swallowing back a lump in his throat. “I’m not, I— I’m sorry. Please, you have to believe me.”

_I’m not our father_, he keeps to himself.

“What happened to you?” Raph says harshly, whipping his head up to face Gabriel and deliver him a cutting glare. “You were such a sweet kid. I didn’t — _we_ didn’t — raise you to turn out like this. What the hell happened to you?”

Gabriel’s breath hitches, his eyes widening as he bites at the inside of his cheek, but it’s now or never. “You died,” Gabriel says, as he takes in a shaky breath, wrapping his arms protectively around himself.

Raphael looks stricken, and Gabriel has half of a mind to stop talking, but he can’t, not now when the dams that were holding him back have broken down. Gabriel’s never been particularly good at keeping his mouth shut, and it’s gotten him into trouble before. Now is no different but now, there’s not a parent to yell at him for it.

“You died,” he repeats again, breathing heavily as he pushes away the desire to scream. “And— And then everyone else _left _and I— I shouldn’t have had to deal with Father alone. I shouldn’t— I shouldn’t have had to raise Uriel alone. It’s _not_ _fair_, I—”

Gabriel’s knees threaten to give out from under him, and he has to sit, letting himself slide down onto the cold floor as he shifts his hands up to his face, pushing his palms against his eyes in an effort to hold back tears — it doesn’t work. He’s never liked crying in front of people, their father would always scold him for it, but to hell with what Father says.

“Gabriel, I—”

“I mourned you, alright?” Gabriel cuts in without looking up. “And I— I felt so guilty for what happened. I thought— I thought maybe if I wasn’t just so _selfish _that day I’d have noticed something was wrong. That— That maybe I should have said something, that if I could have said _anything, _then maybe you wouldn’t have died. Mum wouldn’t— she wouldn’t lock herself away in her study, wouldn’t run away to some foreign country every year on the anniversary. Lu wouldn’t run off to the US, wouldn’t have fought with Mika every time they saw each other. Uriel would’ve grown up knowing you, would’ve had more of you to remember than your empty room. It’s all my— _It’s all my fault.”_

He keeps saying it quietly to himself, like a mantra. Soon enough, it’s not his voice saying it, but their father’s, the same voice that’s told him he’s never good enough for nearly three decades. Gabriel dimly hears a shuffling noise, but he doesn’t raise his head, breathing heavily as he curls in on himself, unable to stop the tears from flowing or his father’s voice assuring him he’s to blame.

And then, before Gabriel realises it, someone sits next to him, placing Gabriel’s head on their shoulder as Gabriel flinches at the sudden touch. 

Gabriel opens his eyes slowly, still taking shaky breaths, and sees his brother looking at him sadly, petting at Gabriel’s hair as he sits cross–legged on the floor. He has the sad–smile look on his face that he used to have when Gabriel had nightmares of him dying, after the first time he was in the hospital.

“I’m sorry,” Raph says softly, sighing. “I was too selfish. I didn’t even think about how it’s going to affect you. I’m sorry, Gabby.”

Gabriel’s breath hitches, staring at his brother and saying nothing as he clutches his hands at the edges of Raph’s sleeves. It’s like he’s ten again, scared and crying and asking Lu if Raphael dying was his fault. 

Raph hums, still out of breath as he continues to brush Gabriel’s hair away from his face. “He didn’t let you go to art school after I left, did he?”

“No, I—” Gabriel wipes at his cheeks with the back of his hand, hiccoughing as he sits up straighter. “He said— He said you and Lu fucked up, that I needed to take up the slack. I— You know he tore up my acceptance letter in front of me, just after I got home from school? Beat me to the mail for it.”

_“Shit,”_ Raph swears under his breath, shifting so he can wrap his arm around Gabriel’s shoulder. He holds him a little tighter, which isn’t much, considering his weakness, but it’s something. “God, fuck our dad.”

Gabriel nods, managing to give his brother a watery smile as he sniffles. Raphael rubs his back, slowly getting him to calm down a bit more. The repetitive motion helps, it gives him something to focus on other than the hitch in his brother’s breath or the way he can tell, even from the first time he’s seen his brother since he’s been back, that he’s lost weight. Something to focus on other than his own feelings that are getting muddled up.

“Hey, Gabey?” Raph whispers, after they’ve both been sitting in silence for a while.

Gabriel doesn’t want to move, though. “Yeah?” he says without opening his eyes.

“Don’t turn your anger on Ezra, alright?” says Raph, ruffling at Gabriel’s hair. “He’s a good man, he doesn’t deserve it. You need to apologise to him. And give him his job back, will you?”

Gabriel freezes. Maybe this is another joke, something else to make fun of him or—

“Did he put you up to this?” Gabriel asks, frowning at his brother again. The last thing he’d wanted to hear right now was about Ezra Fell. Not _now_.

“He doesn’t know,” Raph sighs, putting his chin on top of Gabriel’s head. “And don’t you _dare _tell him I talked to you about it, it’s gonna hurt his pride. He’s hurt enough from all of this already. All because of _me_.”

Gabriel’s not really sure what he means by that. “I don’t—”

“Please?” Raph asks again, blinking sleepily.

“I’ll think about it,” Gabriel replies, shifting closer to his brother.


	29. Rafflesia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :>, but make it more intense

Ezra decides that Crowley being cooped up for such a long time wasn’t the greatest, and since the nurses agreed he was stable enough to go out in a wheelchair, it meant they were going for a walk — as much as a walk could be when one is in a wheelchair.

“It’s nice out, isn’t it?” Ezra says, pushing Crowley along over the stone path that goes through the garden in the hospital’s courtyard.

Crowley shrugs. “It is. Wish it were more overcast, though,” he replies, squinting behind his sunglasses. He has a feeling he’s going to be paying for the outing with a migraine later.

Ezra hums. “It’s good for you to get sunlight, you know,” he teases, moving one hand to give a comforting squeeze to Crowley’s shoulder.

“‘M not a _plant_,” he shoots back, leaning his head back to look up at his fiancé with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Ezra smiles back, leaning down to press a kiss to Crowley’s forehead.

He pouts in response. “You could at least give me a _real _kiss.”

“I don’t want you getting an infection or getting sick,” Ezra says, running his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “The doctors said with your IV line that infections are a major risk and we can’t have that, dear.”

Crowley groans, holding his arm with the aforementioned line out. “That’s not how PICC lines work, Ezra,” he says. “I was almost a doctor, can’t pull one over on me.”

Ezra raises an eyebrow, and Crowley butts his head against his wrist. “Please?” he asks again, batting his eyelashes.

Ezra smiles, leaning back down to _properly_ kiss Crowley, his free hand cupping Crowley’s face. “There,” he says as he pulls away. “And besides — you don’t get to say you’re _not _a plant when you’re taking all your trauma out on them. They can’t even fight back.”

“No talking about that right now,” Crowley interjects quickly before Ezra can go on. “I’m out now, having a grand time in the bright sun in the heat.”

Ezra snorts, but continues walking along. “Have they changed much? The gardens, since you were here last?” he asks after a bit of silence.

“A bit, as far as I remember. It was a while ago.”

_And I don’t remember much from then, _he thinks, and it’s true. The months he spent hospitalised at seventeen, and then again on and off every year until he ran off, blurred together after a while when he wasn’t missing them entirely only to be filled in by Mika or Lu (who sugar–coated everything) or one of his friends when they’d come to visit (who did _not_ sugar–coat anything and would always tell him he looked like death warmed over).

“Crowley? Are you listening?” Ezra asks, probably for the second or third time, but Crowley wasn’t paying much attention.

This time’s enough for him to snap out of his train of thought, though, long enough for him to register the growing pain behind his eyes. “I— Right, sorry, zoned out,” he says, closing his eyes and resting his head on his hand.

Ezra rests a hand on the back of Crowley’s neck, what should be a comforting weight. Crowley has to force himself not to flinch, a habit developed long before he ever met Ezra.

“You look like you’re getting a migraine,” Ezra points out. “You’re making that face you do when you’ve got one coming on.”

Crowley shakes his head, grimacing as it makes the nausea worse. “We can stay out—”

“Dear, do you want to go back in? I can turn the lights out and ask someone for an ice pack or something with caffeine,” Ezra asks.

Crowley sighs. “If you don’t want to—”

“It’s about you.” Ezra presses a kiss to Crowley’s temple. “It’s whatever you’d like, love.”

Crowley tilts his head up enough to look at Ezra. “Yeah, going inside sounds nice,” he mumbles. “Thanks, Ezra.”

Ezra nods and turns them around to head inside, humming as he goes. Crowley leans his head over again to rest against Ezra’s arm, closing his eyes.

“Did Gabriel give you your job back?” he asks, suddenly remembering.

Ezra stops humming. “He offered it back, yes. Texted me and said I was allowed to take a leave for a while with reduced pay,” he replies, his voice taut with what Crowley assumes is anxiety.

“Do you want me to—”

“Absolutely not, my dear. No more excitement for you,” Ezra scolds as they enter the lift. “Besides, that’s plenty gracious.”

“Ezra,” he says, turning in the wheelchair to look at his fiancé. “He _fired you outside my hospital room_ just because you associate with me and he doesn’t know how to handle his trauma like a grown–up.”

“Crowley, you ran away from everyone you loved and more or less faked your death. That is _also _not very grown–up,” Ezra fires back, raising an eyebrow at Crowley’s displeased pout. “Don’t look at me like that, dear.”

Crowley grumbles under his breath — good–natured ribbing remarks — as they wait for the ride up.

They’re joking and pulling into Crowley’s room when he looks up and spots his brother and Bee. The previous mood is killed rather quickly, as Lu puts his phone away and Bee leans against the wall disinterestedly, but also plenty interested. Crowley’s known her for years, long enough to know that’s her “fly–on–the–wall” pose. 

“Fancy seeing you two here,” Crowley says sarcastically. “To what do I owe the honour?”

“Glad to see you’re in good spirits,” Lu says with a smug look on his face. “Because you’re getting a visitor today.”

Crowley stands up, one of Ezra’s hands on his elbow to keep him steady. The doctors keep telling him to rest, but they also keep telling him to stand because they don’t want blood clots to form.

He’s just now remembering why he dropped out of med school.

“So Mika or Uriel now warrant a welcoming committee?” Crowley asks, raising an eyebrow and turning to give an amused look at Ezra, who just looks concerned at the way Crowley sways ever–so–slightly. Crowley almost tells him not to worry, it’s just that his feet are numb, what with the poor circulation and all, but Lucifer interrupts him before he can say anything.

“It’s Dagon.”

Crowley almost topples over, with the way his world suddenly shifts. That was not what he was expecting.

“I— _what—”_

“She knows about Uriel — well, she knows about Uriel getting hurt but doesn’t know that she’s home. She’s coming here, soon as her plane lands from Brazil, and _you’re_ going to be the one she’s seeing,” Lu clarifies.

Crowley audibly swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Are you sure he should be going through this?” Ezra finally says, voice unsure, and Crowley’s heart warms at the fact he’s brave enough to speak up for him. “He just had an episode—”

“If he’s well enough to be out in the gardens, he’s well enough to see his bloody best friend,” Lu snaps.

Ezra stands his ground (and _oh_, Crowley could kiss him), staring Crowley’s brother down before turning to Bee.

“And you’re okay with this?” Ezra snaps. “What happens if something happens? Mika would be—”

_“You leave her out of this,” _she snaps, pushing off the wall and nearly crossing the room.

Crowley shifts enough to put himself between her and his fiancé, despite knowing full well that Bee could knock him over like a cardboard cutout if she wanted to. Lu reels her back in, resting his fingertips on the point of her elbow, and it’s enough to get her to take a breath.

“I’m rather looking forward to her tearing you a new one, actually,” Bee finally says.

Crowley huffs, shuffling towards his bed. It’s best he saves his strength for the main event, after all. “How much longer do I have?”

Lu checks his watch. “Couple hours. I told her we’d pick her up. Be ready.” 

Lucifer and Bee don’t stay and visit for long, but Ezra takes his time.

“So…” Ezra says after ten minutes of watching Crowley internally panic and trying to decide what he’s going to say. “Tell me about her. She was your best friend, wasn’t she?”

Crowley runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, since secondary. Went to school together, she got in on a scholarship. Her mum’s nice. Also, she dragged Bee into our lives during uni, they’re cousins.”

“Oh, befriending the needy, I see,” Ezra teases gently, as Crowley shoots him a withering glare. “I’m _kidding_.”

Crowley sighs, pulling his legs up to lean against.

“We were inseparable, the three of us — even went to uni together. She was going for entomology, I assume that’s why she was in Brazil — the rainforest being there, and all. Probably got her doctorate, by now,” he says, leaning his forehead against his knees.

Ezra gives his back a pat, trying to be a comfort. “Wait, you said three of you?” he says, blinking. “Who’s the third?”

“Ligur. Not attached to the royal family as directly as we are, but—”

“Wait, _what?!” _Ezra interjects, his eyes growing wide as he stares at Crowley.

“... No one filled you in?” Crowley says, suddenly wanting to shrink into himself.

“_Obviously not, Crowley!” _Ezra says, and Crowley shrinks further into the pillows. “I— what do you _mean_ ‘as directly’!?”

Crowley takes a deep breath and sits up.

“Mum’s a Mountbatten. That makes us… roughly third cousins, on her side, with the Queen and the royal family. There’s also drama about the first Baron Christchurch being Henry VIII’s bastard son. But… Yes, technically we’re the Christchurches of Astworth. Lu’s the thirteenth baron of the line.”

Ezra takes a long exhale, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

“‘M sorry angel, I thought someone would have filled you in properly while I was out,” Crowley says, looking up rather sheepishly.

“They didn’t,” he says softly. “Does that mean we’re having a televised wedding?”

Crowley lets out a bark of laughter. “They don’t even know I’m _alive _yet,” he jokes, taking Ezra’s hand. “When they do, though — they’re going to find out, the papers will, eventually — we’ll go from there. Alright?” he adds, pressing a kiss to Ezra’s wrist.

“Okay, I can— I can handle getting to it later,” Ezra says, nodding to himself as if that makes it easier to digest. “Go on, about Ligur.”

Crowley nods.

“Anyways. He and his family, they still have to attend weddings and funerals and whatnot. His mum married a courtesy marquess and had him,” Crowley supplies as Ezra hums in thought. “We… had a thing, for a while, and decided it was better to be friends. Dagon never let me hear the end of it, and neither did Hastur once he got with Ligur. Absolute arses, we all were,” he adds, grinning breathlessly at the memory, before he gets hit with the realisation. _“Fuck,_ I don’t know what I’m going to say to her.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you,” Ezra says gently. “She’ll be mad, of course, and you know that’s reasonable—”

“Boy do I,” Crowley grumbles into the blanket.

Ezra continues, “—but she’ll see herself over it. It just takes time.”

Crowley hums, and Ezra leans forward to press a kiss to his temple. “I need to run home and check on things for a bit, but I’ll be back. Alright?”

“Yeah, angel, that’s fine,” Crowley replies, turning his head to peck a quick kiss to Ezra’s cheek before he goes. “Love you.”

“I love you too, dear. And remember — it takes time.”

The next two hours pass uneventfully. A nurse gives him something in his IV for the headache–turning–into–a–migraine, which helps. Crowley plays on his mobile, cursing when he loses a round of the game, before he checks his texts and the time. Lu has only texted him once, letting him know the rough estimate of when they’d arrive at the hospital. It passes both too slowly and too fast.

His door is open and he can hear her voice and Lu’s heavy footsteps. He hasn’t heard Dagon’s voice in a decade and she sounds the same — maybe a little more tired, like the nights they had to stay up at the library for exams, but it’s _her,_ and he still doesn’t know what to say.

The voices grow closer, and Crowley can feel his heart doing its best to pound out of his chest (which would be a good thing, if he were on an operating table with a heart in a cooler nearby, but he is _not)._

Dagon’s head is turned when she comes in, mid–sentence of arguing with his brother that this was not the right floor. It takes a moment for her to turn to the hospital room and take in what’s around her.

She takes one look at him, and drops the bag hanging on her shoulder. Lucifer and Bee suddenly look very guilty, when previously they’d been extremely ready for the carnage that was to come. 

“Dagon—” Crowley doesn’t get any more out before she’s already off.

“What the _fuck_,” she says venomously, rounding on Lucifer. “_What the fuck is this?”_

“Hey,” Bee manages. “You need to—”

“I need to _what?_ Calm down?” she asks, turning back to the hospital bed and narrowing her eyes. “You. If you’re him — and I don’t believe you fucking are, I think you’re leading everyone on because you’re, I don’t know, really _fucking _cruel or something — what did you tell me the night we finished secondary?” 

Crowley blinks at her. He was expecting anger, but he was not expecting a test. “What?”

“Did I stutter?” she snaps.

Crowley definitely was not expecting this — anger, sure, but he was expecting to be instantly recognizable. Then again, he’s looking rather sickly right now, and it’s been nearly fifteen years since she’s seen him this bad. And it can’t help that she was blindsided.

Crowley swallows the lump in his throat. “We went out drinking — you, me, and Ligur,” he says quietly, worrying the hem of the hospital blanket as he takes a steadying breath. He doesn’t want to pass out, especially not right now, but he’s got a lot to say even if he can’t really look at her while he says it. “We went outside because we wanted a smoke and Ligur bitched at us about it — I hope you stopped, by the way, that shit’s gonna kill you. I mean, I stopped too,” he adds, his breath catching in his throat.

“You didn’t answer the question,” she says, voice shaking.

“I told you that you had to keep going if I died,” he continues, forcing his own voice to keep steady, “Actually, I’m pretty sure I quoted something from Shakespeare and you told me I was a dweeb and that I wasn’t going to die for a long time. But I did, and I guess you did — keep going, I mean. How was South America, by the way? Find anything neat?”

Judging by the look on her face, he’s said enough, and Dagon breaks down crying in the centre of the hospital room. Bee moves to console her, but Dagon takes a step away.

“Don’t,” she says harshly. “Don’t— How long have you _known?”_

“A week or so,” Bee answers, “Lu’s known for a decade because _he’s_ a prick and _someone _didn’t change their emergency contact.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “It slipped my mind,” he says dryly, but his face softens when he looks back to Dagon. “I—”

_“No,”_ Dagon snaps, rounding on Crowley. “Just— I _mourned _you, for a decade, and now you just— you just _show up_ out of nowhere, with a whole new life! And— And did you think I wouldn’t keep your secret? Raph, I told you I would support you if you ran away from the absolute _shit show_ that is your family!”

_“Hey,”_ Lu yells, glaring at both of them now.

Bee hits his arm to quiet him, tugging him out of the room with Dagon watching as they go. Bee closes the door behind them, heading down the hall, and Crowley assumes they’re probably going to the cafeteria, or just down the end of the wing.

He almost wishes they had stayed when Dagon turns back to him.

_Oh, you’re in for it now,_ he thinks. _This could have gone much, _much _better._

“I can_not_ believe you,” she snaps, wiping furiously at her eyes. “You disappear for _years_, only to come back a whole new person like nothing’s happened and leave all of us to pick up the pieces that the great Raphael Christchurch left behind. Because that’s what you _do_ when you have the means, isn’t it? Just leave people behind that you don’t need anymore!”

Crowley flinches, slowly bringing his legs up to his chest, taking in another deep breath while she keeps yelling, her voice steadily rising in volume the longer she goes on. Lu’s probably already told the nurses in charge not to run in if they heard yelling — at least he’d thought ahead for that. Crowley can only be along for the ride while Dagon keeps yelling. He’s been around her when she’s fighting mad like this, and it’s best to let her ride it out until she’s done. If he knows anything about her, it’s that she’s bottled this up for a decade. Putting the cork back on now would just result in a worse explosion.

“I blamed _myself,_ and so did everyone else! You— you _left_ and you only thought of yourself, and maybe that’s why you came back too, isn’t it? You did it for yourself because you finally realized that maybe you actually _need_ people?”

She’s pacing now, gesturing dramatically with her hands, and who knew he could miss that so much? Crowley’s bottom lip actually wobbles just a bit as he swallows the lump of sorrow working its way up his throat again. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her back then — hadn’t wanted to hurt _anyone_, except maybe himself — but here he was now, his best friend for _years_ crying in his hospital room because he’d abandoned her and everyone else a decade ago. 

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Raph?” she snaps, looking at him and wiping at her eyes. Her chest is actually heaving, like she’s run a race. The only reward is _maybe_ patching up a friendship.

“That’s not my name anymore,” he replies quietly, choking back his own sob, “It’s Anthony Crowley now — has been for nine years. Almost ten, actually. And… I’m sorry, Dagon, I didn’t— I never wanted it to happen like this. You know I didn’t want to hurt you and I’m sorry.”

Dagon breaks down entirely with those words, wrapping her arms around herself and choking out heaving sobs. Crowley startles at it, forcing himself to take several deep breaths to stop himself from getting dizzy. He raises an arm out, just barely, but it catches Dagon’s eye enough that she crosses the room and tucks herself into his side, wrapping her arms around him while she cries into his shoulder.

He wasn’t expecting this kind of enthusiasm, considering she’d just been yelling, but he brings his arms around her nonetheless and rubs back and forth across her shoulder blades.

“Your hugs feel the same,” she sniffles into him. “Should I even be hugging you? You didn’t look well.”

“Oh, you know what they say,” he jokes. “Heart surgery never killed anybody.”

“Another one?” she asks, pulling away and wiping her eyes. Her hand finds his, holding on like a lifeline in a storm. “How bad is it this time?”

He sighs, and debates telling her the truth, but he’s been lying about things for so long — she deserves to know.

“Lu didn’t want to tell me, but I pieced enough together — I’m royally fucked unless they get a donor,” he says dryly, his eyelids drooping. He’s been fighting sleep off this entire time — he can vaguely track that this brand of exhaustion is already normal for him, considering the budding migraine from earlier and the heart stuff —, and he lets himself drift off while still holding Dagon.

It’s not a long nap, considering Dagon’s immediate panic when he doesn’t respond to one of her questions. It startles him awake, momentarily making his heart stutter with the sudden action. He looks at her, taking in what’s changed over ten years — she’s sunburnt now, but nothing has changed except her hair’s grown longer, and there are more worry lines on her face. Crowley wonders how many of those are because him.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “been tired lately.”

Dagon manages a watery laugh. “Your heart giving out will do that,” she replies, wiping her eyes again. “I’m… sorry I yelled.”

“No, yelling is alright. Better than smacking me, y’know,” he says with a shrug.

Dagon narrows her eyes, attempting to look straight through him. “Did someone? Because I’ll have words with them. They’re allowed to be mad, but—”

Crowley waves her off, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it. Tell me about you, though, what’s gone on?”

They spend almost two hours catching up on Dagon’s life. She tells him about graduating her entomology program, how she’s technically a doctor now and doing research across the globe here and again when she’s not holed up in her flat writing papers about existing research. She talks about Ligur and Hastur going on their _second_ honeymoon, a cruise, when all of this had happened — Crowley winces, suddenly remembering that Ligur is going to find out one way or another, and that that might be another session of yelling, not that Crowley would blame him. She goes on about the most recent discovery of hers when Crowley asks if she’s found anything particularly interesting. 

“I named a butterfly after you, you know,” Dagon says after a moment of silence. “Because you died and whatever. _Rafaheles cormeum.”_

“That’s… Help me out here, it’s been a while since I’ve taken Latin,” Crowley teases, as Dagon rolls her eyes.

“Raphael’s heart, is the rough translation. I thought it was pretty fitting for a red and black sickly organism,” she says, giving him a self–assured smirk while Crowley rolls his eyes, groaning.

“That’s _so_ wrong,” he jokes, “but I do feel quite honoured. I’m sure the scientific community was very confused.”

Dagon rolls her eyes again, smiling while she leans back in the plastic chair. “So when do you plan on letting everyone else know?” she asks, and Crowley goes quiet.

“_Crowley.”_

He shrugs, not really knowing how to answer.

“Crowley, you can't stay hidden away forever. The paps are gonna find out, and you and I both know that if _that’s _how Ligur finds out, he’s not gonna take it well.”

“Do _not_ bring him up right now,” Crowley groans, “I haven’t thought that far ahead in the grand scheme of things.”

“Did you think ahead _at all?” _Dagon asks, raising her eyebrow.

Crowley huffs, pushing his glasses up to rub his eyes. “...Point taken.” He leans back against the bed, hands still over his eyes. “Kind of wish—”

_“Don’t you dare,”_ Dagon says. “You— No, you’re not allowed to finish that. I’ll tell Mika you were saying that and _she_ can yell at you once I’m done.”

Crowley raises his hands in defeat. “Alright, alright. Won’t finish it,” he concedes, then furrows his eyebrows as Dagon narrows her eyes. “What—”

“You’re _engaged!”_ she says suddenly. “Anthony, you _dimwit_, you could have led with that!”

Crowley sputters for a response. “I was letting you talk first?” he offers, unsure of what else to say.

Dagon rolls her eyes. “Gone for a decade and don’t even put in a word about yourself,” she scolds. “Tell me about him, then.”

So Crowley does. Tells her about his car breaking down, about the dates, about moving in together and domestic bliss, and how they’d gotten engaged. Up until the night Lu had called him about Uriel, and the mess that ensued.

Dagon holds his hand the entire time. “Sounds like a shitshow,” she says bluntly.

Crowley snorts. “More ‘n a shitshow,” he offers. “But… I think everyone’s coming around. Except Gabey, he’s going to take time.”

Dagon sighs, shaking her head. “He’s been through a lot,” she says, “No one was there to protect him.”

“I know,” Crowley says quietly. “But I’m going to make it better.”

Dagon hums, and there’s a few minutes of silence before Dagon scoops his phone up from the bedside table.

_“Hey!”_

“I’m just looking at pictures of him!” she teases.

Crowley crosses his arms as he pouts. “Best stay out of it unless you want to see less _clean_ things!” he teases back.

She gags, and tosses his phone into his lap. Crowley laughs, and it’s almost like they’re in uni again and this is just another EKG appointment. 

“Fine, you show me then,” she says, taking back her seat curled up into his side.

Crowley swipes open his phone and finds an acceptable picture of Ezra, curled up on their sofa and reading a book as the sun comes in from the window behind him. Something from the first days they’ve lived together under the same roof, and one of Crowley’s favourite photos of him.

Dagon whistles. “Damn, Anthony, didn’t tell me he was an _angel.”_

“Hey, that’s _my_ nickname for him, not yours,” Crowley whines with a pout. “Find another one.”

Dagon rolls her eyes, resting her head against his shoulder. He turns his phone off, resting it on his chest, and leans his head against hers. They both stay quiet for a moment.

“You don’t hate me, do you?” he whispers, finally.

“Of course not,” she says quietly, taking his hand again. “You’re my best friend. You’ve just… been gone a while. We’ll go back to normal.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t—”

“I missed a decade of your life, Crowl,” she says.

Crowley wrinkles his nose at the nickname. He wasn’t big on nicknames for himself, they just never sounded right.

Though Dagon can’t see it, she laughs when she feels his head shift. “I probably should be mad. But I also kind of got it out screaming at you earlier. I’m not going to apologise, though.”

“Don’t have to,” he replies. “If this were flipped I wouldn’t either.” Crowley reaches for her hand again, impossibly warm — though nowadays, he’s always freezing. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” Dagon whispers. “If you wanna nap, I’ll stay a while. Don’t need to get back to my flat yet, Bee’s been stopping by. She and Mika also took my cat, so she’s at their place.”

Crowley hums. “Think I might take you up on the nap,” he says with a yawn, eyes already drooping. He falls asleep with his head on her shoulder, as if things never changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the original version for that reveal was supposed to be Crowley muttering about how there’s nothing to watch because all the stations are just talking about “Cousin Harry”’s wedding when there’s nothing scandalous about falling in love (because this fic is set in 2019 if you didn’t notice) and then a resulting spiel about how Crowley once got pushed into a pond at a tea party. It’s an entire thing.


	30. Periwinkle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :>, but make it even more intense

The day after Dagon’s come to see him, Crowley looks on — absolutely exasperated — as he watches her fussing with the cuffs of her dress shirt while she paces the room.

“I _know_ you’re not preening just because you’re meeting my fiancé,” he teases from his hospital bed. “Honestly Dagon, this isn’t— he’s going to like you just _fine_.” 

“First impressions are everything,” she says, pausing to turn and face him with her arms out. “Look alright?”

“You like _fine,_” he says again, rolling his eyes. “Honestly. And they say _I’m _conceited.”

Dagon snorts and goes back to stand at his bedside, running a hand through his hair.

Crowley hums, leaning into her hand. “Feels good.”

“It’s getting long again, not much longer and you’ll be back to what you looked like in secondary and uni,” she teases before tapping at the frames of his pink–lensed glasses and adding “Rose–coloured glasses and all.”

Crowley bats her hand away, offering an amused smile. “Yeah, yeah, they’re calling it _vintage_ nowadays.”

“Vintage implies it was ever cool,” she fires back. “Black always looked better.”

Crowley huffs. “‘M perfectly aware.”

Crowley’s phone starts buzzing in his lap, and he hurries to pick it up to check the text. His face breaks out into a grin as he reads, looking back at Dagon. “He’s on his way up.”

Dagon immediately scrambles to look in the mirror on the wall, making sure her hair looks okay while Crowley laughs, then comes back to stand at his bedside, her hands clasped politely in front of her, just as Ezra approaches.

Ezra knocks on the door before he comes in, though Crowley _knows_ he knows he’s allowed in at any time. Crowley calls a quick _come in_, and Ezra enters with a messenger bag at his side and carrying a box in with him. Dagon hurries over to help him, taking the box and sitting it on the bedside table.

“Pleasure to meet you, dear,” Ezra says, extending his hand. “Ezra Fell.”

“Dagon Prince,” she answers, taking his hand to shake. “It’s wonderful to meet you. Crowley’s talked fondly of you, the romantic prat.”

It makes Ezra laugh, despite the noise of protest that it elicits from Crowley.

“Mutual it seems, then,” Ezra supplies. “Crowley’s told me a bit about you but it’s nice to finally meet the person who’s been such a part of his life. Oh, and I brought danishes if you’d like any. Crowley tends to complain about the hospital food.” 

He goes to Crowley’s other side, setting his bag on the floor next to the other visitor’s chair as he leans over to press a kiss to Crowley’s lips.

“Took you long enough,” Crowley pouts, reaching for Ezra’s hand.

Dagon snags a danish from the box and takes a seat on the side opposite Ezra, leaning her arms on the bed that Crowley’s legs don’t take up while she eats the pastry.

Crowley looks between the two of them, his eyes landing on her barely–there smirk. He knows that look far too well. “I expect _no_ embarrassing stories to be swapped here today,” he scolds before she can even start.

Dagon raises an eyebrow. “So I _shouldn’t_ tell him about that time you got piss drunk and cried about snakes not having legs?” she asks between bites.

Ezra barely suppresses a laugh as Crowley shoots Dagon a withering glare, sighing.

“Nothing is private with you,” Crowley grumbles, reaching for the box and selecting a cherry danish for himself.

She just smirks as he takes a bite. “Oh, plenty is private. I’m just missing a decade of embarrassing stories, and Ezra’s missing a decade of _other_ embarrassing stories, it’s only fair,” she chimes. “I also came stocked with pictures out of old albums, at your sister’s encouragement.”

Crowley groans again through a mouthful of cherries (to hell with manners, none of them care anyways), immediately knowing which sister his friend was referring to. “I cannot _believe _her,” he says. _“I trusted her!”_

“In Uriel’s defense, if this is all she does then count yourself lucky,” Ezra offers. “She’s a teenager, they’ve got all kinds of know–how on revenge.” He takes Crowley’s free hand, running his thumb over Crowley’s knuckles. “And I’ve never seen any pictures of you from before you were twenty–five, anyways, except for the sole one at the flat with you and Anathema.” 

“Fine, fine, have your fun,” Crowley says as he finishes the danish. “But I’ll not be happy about whatever pictures are shared, especially if they’re particularly embarrassing.”

So Dagon starts to pull photos out of her bag, laying them out across the foot of the hospital bed as she and Crowley talk about when and where they were taken while Ezra listens intently. She starts with pictures of his siblings when they were much younger — Mika and Lu together as young teens (Lucifer with _braces_, which Crowley jokes about relentlessly), one of Gabe in his school uniform, another of a toddler–aged Uriel with a toothy smile. There are a few pictures from when Crowley, Dagon, and Ligur were in secondary school, mostly of the trio in school uniforms as well as a few of Crowley and his siblings — Ezra had acted shocked when he realised Crowley wasn’t kidding about having those pink glasses forever. There’s also plenty from their uni days at the library or out drinking, Dagon and Crowley pointing out Ligur, Hastur, and Bee in a few. A couple from times that Crowley had been in the hospital when he was younger, one with his arms crossed and looking at the camera over his glasses. There’s another couple pictures from when Crowley was much younger — Dagon pulls out one from his first violin recital when he was ten, another of him with a blue ribbon standing next to Sirius in a pair of breeches and a jacket, and another one of him, aged maybe seven or eight, holding a baby in a hospital chair as Mum oversees him.

“Who— Is that _Gabriel?”_ Ezra asks, taking the photo off the bed. “Wow, you were _still_ quite ginger as a child.”

Crowley snorts. “Yep, that’s baby Gabey,” he replies.

Dagon laughs and pulls another out of the bag, setting it down in front of Ezra. 

“That’s Crowley and baby Uriel at her first Christmas,” she says.

Crowley can see the corner of it, of his smiling face cooing down at Uriel.

“There’s none of you and her from when she was born?” Ezra asks, and Crowley freezes, while Dagon looks uncomfortable, shifting in her seat.

“I was in a coma,” Crowley says quietly. “When Mum had her. I was in the hospital from September to the first week of December that year.”

“Oh, Crowley…” Ezra takes his hand, squeezing to reassure him.

Dagon smiles sadly at them both. “Here,” she says, digging through her bag to try and change the subject. “Take a look at this one.” 

Crowley can’t get a great look of it from the way Dagon’s holding it, but he recognizes his mother in a hospital bed, a very young Michael and Lucifer — before he’d earned that nickname, of course — laying next to her as she holds a tiny baby with wisps of wavy strawberry–blond hair. Ezra smiles at it while Crowley flushes pink.

“Little Raphy–Taffy—”

Dagon almost smacks a hand over her mouth as the conversation comes to an abrupt stop. Ezra looks up and gives her an unreadable expression — it’s a glare, and Crowley knows it as the classic “if I weren’t so polite I’d be very angry” glare. Crowley rests his hand on top of Ezra’s, reassuring him that it’s alright.

“Shit, Crowley, I’m sorry—”

“It _had_ to be that nickname, huh?” he says with a slight smile, just the corner of his mouth turning up as he turns his head to face her. At the look Dagon gives him, he reaches for her hand. “Hey, look at me, Prince. It’s _fine_, you didn’t mean to. It’s okay, Dagon, you’re just going to have to come up with other equally–bad nicknames.”

She lets out a breath she must have been holding. “Crowley–poly is on that list then,” she says.

Crowley groans while Ezra laughs, and the conversation goes back to a comfortable familiarity that it had before. They keep going through old pictures, exchanging stories between the three of them, and Ezra and Dagon exchange numbers to keep in contact, as Dagon demands to hear about his and Crowley’s first meeting from _his_ perspective.

Ezra had to leave later that day, saying that he had to run something up to the office, though he wasn't working — Gabriel had come to see reason, and had given him an extended family leave. It wasn’t long–term, and Gabriel was still being a dick, but it _was_ something, at least.

“So… Ligur and Hastur get back tomorrow,” Dagon says, sitting on the edge of Crowley’s bed as she scrolls through her phone.

Crowley swallows, knowing where this conversation is going.

Dagon offers her hand for him to hold, which he takes. “You’re going to have to face them, you know. He deserves to know too.”

“I know,” Crowley replies, “I just— I don’t know what he’ll say.”

“Ligur’s not the one who’ll be pissed,” she offers. “But Hastur’ll have enough anger for the both of them.”

Crowley snorts. “That’s an understatement,” he sighs, his free hand coming up to brush through his hair. “I do need to talk with them. Ligur especially. I know they took care of Uriel.”

Dagon hums. “We all did— We all _do_,” she reiterates. “Hastur and Ligur took her to—”

“Pride, I know.” Crowley swallows. “I saw them there.”

_“What?”_

“Uriel literally ran into Ezra,” he says. “She was wearing my jacket, had my old bag with the pins. _I handed the pins back to her_. Once I saw them… I knew who she was. It _had_ been a decade, but I just… I _knew_. Hastur and Ligur called for her to catch up when Ezra talked to her. And I just stood there and panicked and we went home after.”

“Crowley…” she says, scooting closer and shifting so that they’re shoulder–to–shoulder.

“I know I have a lot to make up for,” he continues. “But— I don’t know how to do it all. I’m _scared_ to do it all, because I’ve missed everyone but I thought what I did was the only way I could survive, I couldn’t—”

“I know,” Dagon interrupts before he can get too upset. “You did what you thought you had to. I’m not _happy_ you disappeared, but I’m happy you got out before your father could do anything more drastic than what he already did.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Listen, I don’t want to talk about him because he doesn’t deserve to be remembered,” she replies. “He was a prick. I’m glad he’s dead, before he could seriously hurt one of your siblings.”

Crowley nods and sighs. “I just don’t know what I’m going to say to him,” he says, circling back around to Ligur. “Hell, I don’t know how he’s going to even get _up _here to see me.”

“Well, actually, me and Uriel have been talking about that…” 

Two days after their discussion, the plot is put into action.

Uriel had visited the day before with Dagon, where they’d hammered out the intricacies. Now it was just the waiting, which was the worst part in Crowley’s opinion. Hastur and Ligur were coming up to the hospital, unaware that Crowley was there but aware that Uriel had been injured and released recently. Lucifer was coming up with him, seeing as it was seemingly his _job_ to bring Crowley’s old friends up. Uriel and Dagon had spent an hour reassuring Crowley that it would be fine, but it hasn’t calmed his nerves yet, not one bit, judging by how hard his heart is pounding in his chest.

Crowley’s phone buzzes in his lap. He unlocks it to check the text he’d gotten.

_On our way up! Remember to take deep breaths. If you pass out I won't let you live it down! Dagon said I can take blackmail pictures as long as you’re not dying. >:3c — Uriel_

It manages to make him laugh, at least, especially considering she _signs _her texts, like Mika and Gabriel do, which distracts him from wanting to cry. Ezra had asked if Crowley had wanted him there, and Crowley had told him no — he didn't want there to be too much going on for every party involved. He didn't want Ezra to witness the mess he’d left behind in his other life that was now coming to bite him in the arse.

Crowley can hear Uriel’s voice down the hall — he’s at least glad Uriel and Dagon are going to stay, because he’s pretty sure Hastur won’t yell in front of Uriel. _Pretty _sure, but then again, he’s always been a bit of a loose cannon.

_“Before_ we go in!” he hears Uriel announce, and he can see their feet from behind the blinds that cover the window and give him a modicum of privacy, even though privacy in hospitals is near nonexistent. “You both have to promise not to yell. Or hit him. I don’t think you would, but this does bring out strong emotions.”

“Uri,” he hears Ligur say (and _fuck, _he sounds the same as he did a decade previous when he’d begged Crowley not to do something drastic, which he then did anyways), “I promise not to do anything rash. I’m not even the one—”

“I _know_,” she interrupts, in the same exasperated tone that Mika has. “That was more directed at your husband.”

“Hmph. I don’t make promises like that,” Hastur replies. Crowley winces, before hearing Hastur groan. “Fine, fine, you brat. I promise not to do either of the things you said. Can we see what this is about?”

“Alright. I expect those promises to be _kept,_” Dagon reiterates on Uriel’s behalf.

Uriel is the one who appears in the doorway, giving Crowley a smile before hurrying in through the door and going across the room to sweep Crowley into a hug.

“You’ve got this,” she whispers against his head. “And I’ll throw Hastur out. He won’t do anything about it either.”

Crowley laughs, breathlessly, then pulls away, letting Uriel move to the side.

Lucifer is back to his spot leaning against the wall, watching the situation. Dagon is standing behind Hastur and Ligur, who look like they’ve seen a ghost, not that they’re too far off.

“Well,” Ligur says after a moment, letting the shock take a moment to dissipate. “I was expecting a boyfriend, not a supposed–to–be–dead brother.”

“You fucking _wanker,”_ Hastur says at the exact same time.

_“You promised no yelling!”_ Uriel quickly reminds Hastur, before addressing Ligur. “And really? A _boyfriend?_ Li, I expected more from you. Am I still that obviously straight?”

Ligur snorts. “No one in your family’s straight,” he says. “You just inherited that. It’s a dominant gene.” He takes a moment to let the shock sink _back_ in, all while looking right through Crowley. “How long have you known?”

“Me? Since about a week after I woke up here,” Uriel says. “Dagon’s known a whopping three days. _Lu,_ on the other hand…” 

Hastur rounds on him the same time that Ligur turns around and Dagon gives Lucifer a smug look, because Crowley has a feeling she knew this was coming. “How long have _you_ known?”

Judging by the look on his face, Lucifer hadn’t expected to be drawn into this. “Er… eight and a half years, give or take?” he responds.

Regrettably, but predictably, none of them has the chance to hold Hastur back as he punches Lu in the nose. It’s only the punch he throws, at least, but it nearly sends Lu to the ground. 

“What the _fuck?” _Lu snaps, looking up. “I need everyone to _stop hitting my face!” _

Hastur shakes the hand he punched with before cradling it. “You kept a secret like this for a fucking _decade,_ you’re lucky I don’t— I’ll deal with you and this broken finger later,” he snaps, before turning back to Crowley. “What the _hell_, you arse. We went to your funeral!”

“We _all _went to his funeral,” Dagon pipes up, walking around the two of them, _stepping over_ Lu, who sits with his back against the wall and a hand over his nose, to sit at Crowley’s side opposite of Uriel. “Doesn't make you special. Hear him out.”

“I—”

And suddenly, Crowley can’t speak. 

“Anthony?” Uriel asks, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He wheezes, his eyes widening as a hand instinctively moves to his rapidly–constricting chest.

_“Crowley!”_

The monitor next to him starts beeping, _and he can’t breathe._ He looks up and Lucifer is sprinting out of the room, yelling as he goes. Dagon is holding one of his hands, telling him to lay back and stay calm. He looks up and Uriel’s crying, her face a mix of panic and horror as Hastur takes her hand and all but drags her out of the room just as nurses and doctors swarm the room. Dagon doesn’t leave until Ligur is pulling her away, too, and she still struggles against it. It’s the last thing he sees before his eyes roll back, plunging him into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know how we got Dagon Prince, it’s through misreading Dragon Prince.
> 
> Also, he’s fine. Probably.


	31. Cardamine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :>, but even more intense
> 
> Also, your periodic reminder to read the tags.

Crowley comes to with a groan. Everything hurts, and he has a headache, but he is counting his blessings because he is _alive_, considering it felt like the worst episode he’s had since he was deemed more or less in the clear for the time being.

He looks down to see Dagon asleep, leaned over to rest her arms and head by his feet. Crowley struggles to sit up before someone grabs the control for the bed, sitting the top half of the bed up for him. As he looks to his side, he sees it’s Ligur. _Fuck._

“Nasty episode you had there,” Ligur says, crossing his arms. “Your brother said you need a donor. I assume the valve’s worn down. Not taking your meds again?”

“Hadn't seen a cardiologist since I was 23, until I died in the hallway of the PICU,” Crowley rasps, which is immediately followed by a cacophony of coughs.

Ligur hands him the bottle of water that’s been put on his side table, and Crowley downs half of it before putting the cap back on, ignoring the way his hands shake. He’s getting so tired of that.

“Dumb of you, considering your best mate is a cardiologist,” Ligur answers. “By the way, thanks for that. Last we talked I was an undecided medical major — Well, so were you. You ever finish that?”

“No, I didn't get the chance with… everything going on. And you’re welcome for the traumatic inspiration, then,” he answers. “Where’s—”

“Hastur took her back to ours with Lu. That was the first time she saw something like that?” he asks, and Crowley nods. “Rough thing to witness. I don't think anyone’s told her how bad it is. Think that’s what Lu’s doing now, actually. Took him long enough.”

“No one told Ezra either until a couple weeks ago,” Crowley answers. “My fiancé,” he adds, when Ligur raises an eyebrow.

“_Oh_, is _that_ so?” Ligur says.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “A bit late for you to be a jealous ex, considering you just got back from a _second honeymoon_,” he jokes before delving into another coughing fit. Ligur rests a hand on his shoulder until it passes and Crowley takes another sip of water. “You can meet him later, if you want. After you yell at me.”

“Not gonna yell at you,” he replies. “Wasn’t going to before you tried to keel over again, either. I understand why you did it— not to say I _approve_, or that I’m not a bit pissed because you know mum and dad would have let you stay with us, but you did what you needed to. I just missed you.”

Crowley looks down at Dagon, running his hand over her hair. _“She_ yelled at me.” 

“She took it hard,” Ligur answers. “We all did. But… she and Mika and Gabe took it the worst. I spent a lot of time after the funeral talking your sister down from the proverbial ledge.” He pulls up one of the plastic chairs and plops down in it. “And helped raise Uriel. Girl practically lives in our flat now.”

“I’m glad she had you,” Crowley says. “Not as if she had me.”

“Maybe not physically,” he replies. “But… she’s you, through and through. So much that there are — were, now, I guess — times it hurt. There were days I couldn't look at her and _not_ see you. Your father felt the same way.” 

Crowley bristles at the mention of the man. “I hope he’s burning in hell,” he grumbles. “I hope he got what he deserved.” 

“Cirrhosis and a major heart attack? _Yeah,_ I’d call it poetic justice,” Ligur answers. “We all kind of held a party. Well, me and Hastur and Dagon did. Lu came later, and Uriel showed up at midnight crying and spent the week with us.”

Crowley snorts. “So glad to know you adopted her,” he teases. “I can see the headlines: _Marquess and Husband Adopt Christchurch Heir, More On Page 11.”_

Ligur gives him an unamused look. “It’s embarrassing to get mistaken for her father in public,” he answers dryly, sighing. “I don't look _that _old. Not even a marquess yet, gramp’s still around. Makes me an _earl_, technically.”

“Oh, how pretentious of you,” Crowley scowls back.

They stare at each other for a beat before they both start laughing, which is enough to wake Dagon up with a jump.

“Are you alright?” she asks immediately, jumping up from her seat to cup Crowley’s face and look him over, before looking to the monitor. “Christ, Crowley, I thought… Don’t _do_ that again!”

“I will do my best to control my ever–failing heart,” Crowley answers, resting his hand on top of Dagon’s. “I’m fine, really. Feeling great.”

Dagon doesn't look as if she’s buying it as she pulls away, but keeps one hand in Crowley’s. “Ligur, I _told_ you to keep Hastur cool,” she says as she turns to Ligur.

“Right, as if I’ve been able to control him in the ten years we’ve been together, let me just start _now,”_ he answers. “You should go down to the cafeteria, you look like hell.”

Dagon hesitates, looking unsure.

“I’ll be fine,” Crowley reassures her. “‘Sides, I’ve got Mr Cardiologist here to keep me in line. Go get something to eat.”

Dagon relinquishes Crowley’s hand before heading for the door, reassuring him that she’d be back soon.

It leaves Crowley and Ligur alone, sitting in comfortable silence as they avoid each other’s gaze. Crowley sighs and rubs a hand against his forehead, which has gone back to near–throbbing with the stress of the day’s events.

“I don’t regret leaving,” Crowley says, watching Dagon’s feet disappear down the hall. “Maybe it makes me selfish.”

“I don’t think so,” Ligur says. “I think you did what you thought you had to. You didn't see a way out. Though, I have to ask.”

“Hm?”

“The note you left — well, all of them, since there was more than one — those _were_ what we all thought they were, weren’t they?” he asks. “You hadn't planned on running off, originally. There was a different plan. There was a reason they declared you dead pretty quick after that six–month mark, because we all thought you’d ended it and were lying dead in a ditch somewhere.” Ligur pauses, sigh. “Michael never gave up that they’d find remains, though. Even when we tried to coax her out of it.” 

Crowley wasn’t ready for this. Ligur was always too damn smart for his own good between the three of them, though the trait _did_ keep all of them out of trouble most times. He swallows, trying to find the words to say, because he knows for a fact that Ligur is _right_.

“I realized that I could start over instead of becoming a martyr,” Crowley finally decides to say. “But I guess that didn’t work either. I became a martyr anyway, and then popped back into everyone’s lives just to fuck things up the way I did from the time I was seventeen until we were twenty–three.”

“You’re better for being here now,” Ligur says. “You’ve got some time to make up for, but you’re here now and that’s what matters.”

They sit in silence again for a little while, just being companionable in each other’s presence. Ligur leans over and punches his arm lightly, the way he used to when Crowley would tell a particularly bad joke. “I missed you, y’know, you arse.”

Crowley laughs. “Missed you too. I never _stopped _missing anyone.” He swallows around the sudden emotion in his throat, and he’s getting _really_ tired of this feeling. “I used to watch Lu’s old piano recitals on my phone, or scour papers for Mika’s court cases. I avoided news about Gabe and Uriel because I felt too guilty to think about them, thinking about how I’d just left.”

“So you tortured yourself, is what I’m hearing,” Ligur says.

Crowley rolls his eyes just as Ligur’s phone rings with an obnoxiously upbeat ringtone, startling them both.

“Gonna get that?” Crowley asks.

This time Ligur rolls his eyes, raising his phone to his ear as he answers.

“Love? Yeah, he’s— He’s fine, Hastur. Hey, slow— this is _not _your fault, take a breath.” That makes Crowley raise an eyebrow, but he keeps listening. “Is Uriel alright? Okay, alright. Lu explained it to both of you? Good. His nose alright? What about your hand? Al— yeah, that’s fine. Here he is.”

Ligur hands the phone out to Crowley, who takes it hesitantly.

“Hello?”

“Hey you flash bastard, you’re not allowed to die when we’ve just gotten you back,” Hastur says and _shit,_ it sounds like he’s upset.

Crowley chuckles. “Not going anywhere,” he responds. “No crying over me yet.”

_“Again,_ you mean. I cried at your funeral,” he responds.

Crowley grimaces, feeling a pang of guilt shoot through him. “No more funerals,” he says. “I’m back for good. Back to being rivals, we are.”

He sees Ligur roll his eyes, looking exasperated. Crowley’s sure he thought he had more time before the playful bickering started again.

“You’re in no shape to be driving a car, let alone riding a _horse_,” Hastur says back. “I’d win with my eyes closed.”

Crowley laughs again. That _was_ true, but it’s not like he’ll ever admit it.

“You scared Uriel. And Dagon.”

_You scared all of us,_ is what goes unsaid, and Crowley sighs.

“I know. Tell her she can come back tomorrow, let her know I’m alright. Thank you for taking care of her. I’ll see you soon?”

“Right,” Hastur answers. “Tomorrow. See you then?”

“Yep, I’m handing you back to your sappy husband now. Ciao,” he says, and holds the phone back out for Ligur to take.

Ligur takes it back, and immediately talks back to Hastur. “Get some rest, love. I’ll pick dinner up on the way home? The Indian place you ‘n Uriel like. I’ll see you then. Love you, bye.”

He hangs up the phone, raising an eyebrow at Crowley. “I am _not_ sappy.”

_“You just got back from a second honeymoon!”_ Crowley reiterates dramatically. “Actually, you’re right; you’re not sappy, you’re a _sugar daddy. _You’re not sappy, just—”

“If you say _sticky,_ I’m going to put you back in a coma,” Ligur threatens.

“Then do it, coward,” Crowley jeers back.

“Boys, boys, you’re both pretty,” Dagon says as she reenters the room with a paper bag in hand. “And I’ve brought snacks.” She takes a sandwich out for Ligur, and passes Crowley a soft pretzel. “No complaining, I had to wait in line for ten minutes just for the pretzel.”

“Thanks, Dagon,” Ligur says as he unwraps the sandwich from the cling wrap. “_Ooh_, and it’s egg salad.”

“A crime is what that is,” Crowley snarks as he rips a bit of pretzel off to eat. “In front of my perfectly decent pretzel and Dagon’s… _ugh, _you both have poor taste.”

“Tuna salad is perfectly acceptable,” she says matter–of–factly, taking a bite. “You’re just picky.”

They only get a few more uninterrupted bites in when Ezra comes rushing into the room, tossing his messenger bag on the ground just inside the door before making a beeline for Crowley, who, in the excitement, nearly chokes on a piece of his pretzel.

“Uriel called me, are you alright?” Ezra asks, checking Crowley over as if he’d be able to tell what was going on within Crowley from the outside.

Crowley manages to swallow the aforementioned bite of pretzel before he answers. “‘M fine angel, ‘cept for a piece of pretzel nearly having it out for me just now,” he answers. “Just a little hiccup earlier. All good now. See? Right as rain, talking to you right now.”

Ezra doesn’t look particularly convinced, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Did the doctors say anything?” he asks.

Ligur coughs awkwardly. “Haven’t seen his chart, but it was an arrhythmia episode. Just from what I saw, I mean. Probably atrial fibrillation, considering it’s Ebstein’s,” he says casually. He looks at Crowley when Ezra turns to narrow his eyes at him.

“And you are…?”

“Of course you show off at this time,” Crowley sighs, rolling his eyes as he sinks his head back onto the pillow. “Ezra, this is Ligur Temple–Nugent–Brydges–Chandos–Grenville, Marquess of Chandos. Ligur, this is Ezra, my fiancé.” 

“Crowley, I _just _said technically I’m an Earl. Stop killing off my grandfather,” Ligur hisses back. “And it’s just _Temple_. No one wants the whole mouthful.”

Dagon snorts from her seat, finishing her sandwich. “Tell that to Has—”

“Dagon I swear to _God_ I will come over there,” Ligur groans.

“And what? Order the commoner executed?” she fires back with the raise of an eyebrow.

Ligur pinches the bridge of his nose before he looks at Ezra. “I cannot believe you agreed to marry him. Because that means you’re going to have to put up with his family _and_ the rest of us,” he gripes. “It’s nice to meet you, though,” he adds, reaching out to shake Ezra’s hand.

“Of course. Uh, Crowley’s not— Should I… bow?” Ezra asks, hesitantly shaking Ligur’s hand.

_“You didn’t inform him on any of this?”_ Dagon asks, her voice rising up a pitch in disbelief as Ligur lets out a laugh.

Crowley groans. “He didn’t find out that we were royal–adjacent until three days ago, give me a break,” he says as his head sinks further back against his pillows.

“And _how_ long have you two been dating?” Ligur asks Ezra.

“I didn’t find out about… all of this until we came up when Uriel was hurt. So I’ve only really known about everything with his family for less than two months,” Ezra answers.

Ligur huffs. “Crowley, when you get out of here, I’m letting Hastur beat you up,” he says as he leans to talk behind Ezra. “Christ, I at least let him _know_ everything up front.”

“Oh, _I’m_ so sorry, I was busy hiding my dark tormented past,” Crowley shoots back. He reaches to take Ezra’s hand, looking up at him. “Do you forgive me, love?”

Ezra laughs, leaning down to press a kiss to Crowley’s lips. Dagon makes a gagging sound while Ligur lets out an overdramatic groan, which makes Crowley flip the both of them off individually as Dagon scoffs in mock offence.

“We’re allowed to make fun of you, we’ve a decade worth of it to catch up on,” Dagon offers. “And I’m sure Ezra approves considering you kept all of this from him.” She offers him a kind smile, nose wrinkling and scrunching her freckles up across her face. “We’ll be Crowley’s personal little shoulder–demons, never letting him live it down.”

“It’s as if I never left uni,” Crowley huffs, but he’s still unable to hide the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Ligur raises an eyebrow as he stands up, crossing the room to poke his head out the door. “‘M I allowed to look at this?” he asks, gesturing a clipboard in view of the doorframe.

Crowley shrugs, realizing it’s his chart. “Go for it,” he replies.

Ligur brings it back into the room with him, flipping through it.

“Find anything interesting?” Crowley asks as Ezra’s hand tightens around his own. 

“Pushed your release date back,” he muses, looking up and face dropping. “They haven’t told you?”

“No,” Crowley says quietly. “Does… Does it say why?” Crowley feels Dagon’s hand rest on his shoulder.

“Says they’re wanting to give you another ablation before they release you,” Ligur finishes, and Crowley takes a moment to process. “I mean, based on what happened today — how often has that happened since you’ve been in?”

“Enough,” Ezra says, voice small. “It’s… It’s happened enough.”

Crowley takes a shaky breath, calming himself down enough to tug on Ezra’s hand. “Hey, look at me,” he says softly, and Ezra turns around, sitting down heavily on the bed. Crowley lets him wipe at his eyes before he moves to hold his other hand. “It’s going to be fine, angel. It’s going to work out, and then I’ll come home.”

Dagon somehow manages to crawl onto the bed on Crowley’s other side despite the tight fit, tucking herself into his shoulder, and Crowley leans his head against hers for a moment, enough to acknowledge her. “‘M not dying, you two.”

“Can’t believe they haven’t _told _you yet,” Ligur grumbles, “Was written in here this morning, this wouldn’t happen at my hospital.” He goes to replace the chart where he’d gotten it on the wall outside the door before coming back to stand next to the bed where Ezra sits. “Could always recommend a transfer.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow, laughing. “I am not letting you _anywhere _near my open chest cavity,” he says. “I got higher marks than you when we were at med school.”

“I’m a cardiologist, not a surgeon you prat,” Ligur says. He leans against the wall at the head of the bed. “It’s going to be fine. It’s going to make sure he’s stable enough to go home. Don’t start mourning him ahead of time.”

“I did ten years of mourning, I don’t want to do any more of it,” Dagon says as she looks up from laying on Crowley’s shoulder.

“He’ll be fine, Dags,” Ligur says again. He leaves the wall to gently push at Ezra’s shoulder. “You too, kid.”

“He’s two years older than us,” Crowley adds.

Ligur shoots him a look for interrupting. “It’s a pretty routine surgery,” he continues. “Just make sure he’s not doing anything like _skipping appointments_ afterwards.”

Ezra sniffles and Crowley presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Thank you,” Ezra says as he takes a breath. “If— Can we stay in the waiting room during it?”

“‘Course, angel,” Crowley says. “And they’ll let you back as soon as I’m clear to get visitors. Maybe before, since you’re my fiancé.”

Ezra nods, still sniffling.

“And Dagon and Ligur can be there with you, if they want,” Crowley continues, and Dagon snorts while Ligur rolls his eyes. “Everyone will be, probably. If Gabriel doesn’t give you the day, I’ll talk to him.”

“I guess I can take the day off,” Ligur huffs. “To be there with Uriel and Dagon and Ezra of course. And maybe grace you with my presence.”

Dagon and Ezra both laugh, despite Crowley’s groan of protest.

“You are _such_ an arse,” Crowley says, swinging a hand to gently tap him on the side. “God, I’ve missed this.”

“Your fault for running off,” Dagon reminds him.

“She has you there,” Ezra agrees.

Crowley pouts in his general direction, realizing the monster he’s created in introducing his old friends to Ezra. “I can’t believe you’re ganging up on me, your poor sick best friend, and turning the love of my life against me,” he says, placing a hand against his chest as he shakes his head. “It’s cruel.”

Dagon laughs and lays her head back down. Ezra keeps a tight hold of Crowley’s hand, while Ligur looks fondly exasperated with the lot of them.

Things are going to be okay.


	32. Allamanda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is your occasional reminder to read the tags.

Crowley crosses his arms, looking very annoyed with everyone in the room. “Y’know, it’s cruel to do this in front of me, someone who can’t eat that,” he says.

Uriel looks up, her pizza raised for a bite. “Not our fault you decided to neglect your health,” she says with a shrug, continuing to her pizza.

“I’m _starving,”_ he whines again with a pout.

Ezra raises an eyebrow, nudging at his own plate — Crowley had been making fun of him all night, because who eats pizza with a _fork?_ “You ate this afternoon, dear, you won’t waste away,” he teases, smiling at him. “Besides, a bit of hunger in exchange for a safe surgery is worth it.”

“Lord knows he can’t afford a _bad _surgery,” Lucifer grumbles, taking a bite out of his own slice as Mika sends him a look.

“I still can’t believe you all eat _pineapple_ pizza,” Mika says, still glaring at Lu. “Honestly, it’s the _worst_ type.”

“It’s the _best_,” Bee and Crowley manage to say at the same time.

Mika doesn’t look convinced, but enjoys her veggie pizza without further commentary — it doesn’t stop Uriel, though.

“Plain cheese is the best, anyways,” she says as she reaches for another slice. “Toppings ruin the consistency.”

“You’re picky _and_ you’re wrong,” Ligur teases. “Pineapple pizza is good.”

“Betrayed by my own uncle,” Uriel laments. “I should start calling myself Atreus or Thyestes.”

Ezra snorts. “Not close, my dear. Atreus was killed by his nephew, not the other way around. And the nephew was a product of incest, and that whole myth has a lot of cannibalism going on,” he offers.

“This is what I get for trying to make a reference to a classics major,” Uriel groans. “_Why _must my family be made up of smart people and Lu?”

Lu narrows his eyes from across the room. _“Why_ must you be so mean to me?”

“_Why_ must you lack even a shred of common sense?” Uriel shoots back, and Lu looks a little dejected for a moment. “Lu, I’m kidding. You know we love you.”

“Obviously.”

Crowley’s seen this more than once: Lucifer talks a big game, but he’s like the rest of their siblings — filled with doubts and insecurity instilled in them by years of being around their father, and he winces at the face Lucifer makes as he goes back to the plastered–on smile he wears around the youngest of their siblings.

“So, Crowley, excited about going home?” Lucifer asks, shaking off Uriel who’s leaning her back against his and returning to his aloof trust fund kid personality.

“Let’s get the surgery over with first,” Crowley replies, leaning back in bed. “Never know how these things go.”

The rest of dinner passes quickly, and everyone’s beginning to leave just as the visiting hours close out with the reassurances that they’d all see him tomorrow morning before the surgery. Ezra is allowed to stay — the nurses have taken a liking to him — and sits on the edge of the bed.

“Are you nervous?” he asks, fidgeting his hands in his lap. Crowley reaches over to rest his hand atop Ezra’s own. 

“‘M always nervous before these kinds of things,” he jokes. “It’s going to be fine, though, and you’ll get to see me very out of it on pain medication.”

Crowley laughs at his own joke, but Ezra hardly cracks a smile, his hands warm beneath Crowley’s constantly freezing cold ones.

“Hey, angel, it’s gonna be _fine_,” says Crowley, cupping Ezra’s cheek and gently tilting his head so Ezra’s looking at him.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” Ezra replies, _sotto voce_ yet still loud enough to be heard in the almost–silence of the room, but for the constant beeping and sounds of machinery that Crowley’s been accustomed to dealing with and loathes so much. _“Crowley, I can’t lose you again.”_

“You’re not going to lose me,” Crowley says, this time a bit firmer. “You’re gonna be stuck with me for a while, especially after this works and I get to come home.”

“You sound so sure,” he says, moving his hands out from Crowley’s to wipe at his eyes — which had only just begun to tear up. “Sorry, sorry, this is just—”

“It’s fine, angel, it’s a lot for you to process,” he interrupts, leaning forward to wipe some of the errant tears away himself. “But I’m going to be fine. It’s routine, anyways, they do this all the time. I’ve had one once already, another won’t kill me.”

Crowley takes his hands again and pulls Ezra forward while he goes back to reclining in bed, letting Ezra’s head rest against his chest. He wonders if Ezra can hear his faulty heartbeat, as he runs his fingers through Ezra’s curls, shifting so he can press a kiss to Ezra’s forehead.

“I love you,” Ezra says against Crowley’s jutting collarbone.

Crowley hums, arms holding Ezra a little tighter. “Love you too, angel.” 

The next morning, everyone briefly comes in to give well–wishes before surgery, but they all look far too uncomfortable for Crowley’s liking. Eventually, the surgeon comes in and it marks the time for everyone to vacate the room. Soon enough, they’re wheeling Crowley down the hall to the operating theatre, pushing a sedative through his IV line before telling him they’re starting the process of numbing the area they’ll be working on. It’s all quite unexciting, in Crowley’s opinion, and he zones out for most of it.

“Alright. Anthony, how are we feeling?” Dr Marshal asks, leaning over.

Crowley hums, lifting a hand slowly to gesture so–so. “You’re right,” he says as he turns to two of the interns — Drs Jo and Gris, as he was previously introduced. “He’s definitely McSteamy.”

Dr Gris squeaks in response, and Dr Jo just looks amused, but Crowley’s too drowsy to care.

“McDreamy,” she corrects.

Crowley snorts, rolling his eyes behind his heavy eyelids. At least the sedative was nice. “Mhm. My apologies.”

“We’re just waiting for the local to kick in. Can you feel this?” Marshal asks, and Crowley waits a moment, but nothing happens. “I take that as a no. There’s a good chance you’re going to drift off with the sedative, but don’t worry about it. Are you ready?”

“Ready to be out of a hospital,” Crowley replies dryly.

“You will be soon enough,” Marshal tells him.

He calls the interns over, and talks them as well as Crowley through the initial parts of the procedure. Crowley’s only half–listening, his eyes still closed while he explains how everything is going to work. When he’s done, Crowley opens his eyes long enough to see the large needle that’s about to go into the vein by his collarbone.

When Crowley cringes at the odd pressure from the needle and catheter going in — it’s not _pain, _per se, but it’s not pleasant either — Dr Gris winces with sympathy. She must have sensed the discomfort, because she tries to start a conversation.

“Tell me about him,” she says. “Your fiancé. We talk about him in the on–call room all the time.”

“He’s great,” Crowley says through gritted teeth, taking a deep breath while the catheters are threaded through. That's an even weirder feeling, if he’s being honest. “Deals with this _and_ my family, so he’s one–in–a–million.”

Dr Jo laughs, handing Dr Marshal something Crowley can’t quite see. Crowley ignores the growing odd feeling in his chest, thinking it’s all just part of the procedure. “He’s the blond one, right? On the shorter side?”

Crowley hums, agreeing. “Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p’ a the end. 

It takes a few minutes for the team to work the catheters in, or at least that’s what Crowley assumes — he never got this far in his medical schooling, and he’d only read up on the procedure the night before — and the two interns do a decent job of keeping his mind off the discomfort, asking about Ezra every once in a while.

He doesn’t know how much time passes when Dr Marshal pulls a cart closer to the operating table.

“We’re going to start the actual ablation process,” he says. “You might have some discomfort. That’s normal, but tell one of us if something starts to feel wrong.”

Crowley nods, closing his eyes when he’s warned of the first round of heat. It doesn’t _hurt, _but it’s not what he was expecting. He barely remembers the recovery from when he was 17, and he’d been out of it for a while with that particular surgery, anyway.

“Do you both have a date?” Gris asks, looking at the MRI and x–ray scanner screens.

“Sometime soon,” Crowley responds, doing his best not to wince as another catheter goes off in his chest. He’s hoping this will be one of the shorter ablation procedures — one of the articles said it could take as long as six hours. “Sooner the better, I say.”

“That’s sweet,” she says, turning her head back to the surgeon. “He’s looking good so far.” 

It takes a while for Crowley to even realise that there’s something wrong but as soon as he opens his mouth to say something, it’s as if the wind is knocked out of his lungs by a truck. Somewhere behind him, an alarm goes off. 

“Crowley?” Marshal says, the urgency clear in his voice. “Talk to me, what’s going on?”

He can’t reply, even if he tries, gasping for air that won’t come.

Marshal mutters a curse under his breath and calls for a crash cart, barking orders as he puts something into Crowley’s IV line.

The last thing Crowley sees before his vision goes dark is the monitor next to him going haywire as he hears ringing in his ears. 

The first time Crowley wakes up again — he thinks it’s the first, anyway — someone is crying next to him. He peels open his eyes and turns his head to the side — more of a lolling to the side, but that’s thanks to the amount of drugs working their way through his system right now — and sees a familiar halo of blond curls sitting at Crowley’s bedside with his head in his hands.

“‘Z’a?” he asks, his throat scratchy and raw. He doesn’t remember them intubating him, but it’s a familiar enough feeling that he’s sure.

Ezra’s head shoots up, eyes red–rimmed and bloodshot with tears. “Crowley?” he asks, his voice scarcely a whisper.

Crowley can’t get his heavy tongue to cooperate with words, but he doesn’t have to, seeing as Ezra is out of the chair and leaning over him in less than a second, resting his hands on either side of Crowley’s face, just holding him and looking at him as if trying to memorise each feature.

“‘S wrong?” Crowley slurs, trying to raise his hand to Ezra’s. He makes it about halfway before the effort is too much and he lets it drop back to the bed. 

“You died,” Ezra says, choking on a sob. _“You died.”_

“‘M not dead?” Crowley replies, furrowing his brow all confused. “‘S isn’t heaven, not ‘f you’re crying.”

“No, no— during the surgery, the surgeon said your heart stopped.” Ezra turns his head to wipe his eyes on the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He’s not as put–together as he was this morning — his bowtie is gone, and more than that, he’s in a sweatshirt. By the looks of it, it’s either Gabriel’s or Lucifer’s, considering how large it looks on him. Crowley’s never seen him look so casual when out in public.

“But it worked,” Crowley manages after swallowing the lump in his throat — painfully, but he gets past it. “All good now.”

“They said they’ll have to see how well it worked.” Ezra moves one of his hands to brush over Crowley’s hair — someone must have taken his hair out of the surgical net, he quickly realizes. “That they’d have to revisit it at a follow–up.”

Crowley hums and his eyes slip shut as he leans his head into Ezra’s hand on his cheek, only to immediately realise it’s a bad idea when Ezra lets out a choked gasp.

“‘M _fine,”_ Crowley says quickly, forcing his heavy eyes open again. “Just tired. Good drugs, y’know.”

“Oh,” Ezra exhales, letting some of the tension leave his shoulders. “You should get some rest, then. I’ll be back soon, they let me go back first. They’re, ah, limiting your excitement. Your sister let me go back first.”

Crowley smiles, and he’s sure he looks a bit dopey. “They’re both great like that,” he laughs. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“Of course, my love,” Ezra says, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “I’ll be here again when you wake up. I should let them know you’re doing alright.”

Crowley nods, letting his eyes fall shut again as Ezra presses his lips once more to Crowley’s temple as he falls into sleep.

Someone’s brushing his hair when Crowley next wakes up, soft and well–manicured fingers that by their lack of calluses he immediately knows aren’t Ezra’s. He doesn’t know who else it could be, none of his siblings would brush his hair in this particular manner either.

Then he hears her voice humming a melody, and Crowley freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

“Mum,” says Crowley in a raspy voice, his tongue feeling too thick in his mouth. He feels drugged — which isn’t surprising, considering the amount of painkillers they’ve given him. His chest hurts with every motion, and talking leaves him breathless.

“I used to sing you to sleep with that song when you were little,” Mum says, still brushing her fingers through his hair. “Do you remember that?”

“Barely,” he says, breathing out slowly as he opens his eyes and sees their mother with a slight smile on her lips. “I don’t remember most things. Why are you here?”

“Couldn’t stay away this time,” she says softly.

Crowley looks away, avoiding his mother’s scrutinizing gaze. “You’ve stayed away long enough. Why now?”

“Because I almost lost you again today,” his mother replies, lifting her hand away from the top of his head. “And I didn’t want that to happen before I could speak with you.”

“You haven’t talked to me in ten years, Mum,” says Crowley, taking in a deep breath and wincing. “Or even before that. Did you ever really care?”

His mother’s smile falls, and she sighs, her eyebrows furrowing together. “Of course I did,” she replies. “I always have.”

“Did you?” he asks again. He doesn’t really have the energy for this right now, but this conversation’s been so long overdue, Crowley has no choice to push himself for it. _“Did_ you care?”

“Ra— Anthony,” she says, but Crowley doesn’t let her finish.

“You abandoned us, Mum,” Crowley says in her direction as spitefully as he can muster, which isn’t really much, all things considered. “You let Father do whatever he wanted, and you’ve never tried to stop him, not even once. So don’t tell me you cared, because it sure as hell didn’t feel that way.”

“I tried, so many times. I—”

_“When?”_ he demands, only pausing to catch his breath. “When he almost killed me while I was in the hospital? When he nearly strangled Mika just for talking back? When he kicked Lu out on the curb for knocking up Deirdre? When he slowly tried to mould Gabriel into something he’s not? And who knows how he fucked up Uriel? _So when did you try, Mum?”_

“Anthony, I didn’t—”

“_I thought he was going to kill me,”_ he chokes out, and he has to pause again, gasping for a breath that refuses to come. “I thought— I thought he’d kill all of us. I thought he’d kill _you._”

“I didn’t know about Mika,” she says almost inaudibly.

Crowley laughs, and it startles her, from the way she jumps in her seat. And he keeps _laughing_, maybe because of the drugs or maybe because he’s finally lost it. “That’s where you draw the line? Your husband almost murdering his daughter?”

_“Raphael—”_

“No, _don’t_,” he snaps. “You could have done _something_. You could have reported him or _left _or—”

“He was going to take you away from me!” she finally says, her eyes filling up with tears. Mum’s never cried before, at least, never in front of him. She’s heaving now, staring at Crowley as if to make him understand. “I was going to divorce him, and he said he would fight for custody. And he told me if he _lost,_ he’d take all of you anyway. I knew he’d hurt you worse if he did that. I tried to make it _me_ instead of any of you.” 

Crowley hadn’t known that part about his parents’ relationship — he always thought Mum turned a blind eye to the abuse that Father had put onto all of them. He thought she hadn’t cared _at all._

“Mum…”

“I was not — _am not_ — a good mother,” she whispers. “I know that. And I pray every day that God forgives me for that. I prayed that you forgave me for that before you died. You don’t have to forgive me now, I just want to try to make it up to you in some way, if you want me to.”

She falls silent, her hands shaking at her sides as she looks away.

“You’ve never told any of us about this before,” says Crowley, blinking his heavy eyelids as he takes in a shaky breath.

“How could I?” his mother whispers in a hoarse voice, laughing a watery laugh before she bites on her lip. “Stiff upper lip and all that.”

Crowley wants to say more, but he’s losing the fight against the painkillers and the sedative they’d no doubt given him and his own fragile hummingbird heart. Talking by itself was exerting energy he didn’t have, and an _emotional _discussion took even more out of him.

Mum hums, leaning forward to press her lips to his brow. “Get some rest,” she whispers. “I love you, Anthony. Very, _very _much.”

Crowley watches her as she goes, and his eyes slip shut just as she gets to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last angst chapter in a while, we swear.


	33. Tithonia

It takes a while, and a whole lot of whingeing on Crowley’s part, before they finally agree he can get discharged, almost two months to the day of Uriel’s _incident._

Unfortunately for everyone involved, that’s when the problems started.

“I keep telling you, just go stay at our house. We can’t let you live alone in Mayfair like this,” Lu yells for like the third time this week, circling around Crowley’s room like some sort of vulture.

“And I keep telling you,” Crowley says exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose against a migraine already threatening to start. “I’m not going to be alone, Ezra lives with me. Did you somehow forget about that?”

“His family leave’s almost over,” pipes up Gabriel, who looks queasy from where he’s sitting across the room, probably from having to watch the constant back and forth of this conversation.

“Can’t you extend it?” Crowley asks, flashing his little brother a rather rusty puppy–dog eyes look.

“You said that special treatment would be nepotism,” Gabriel points out, as Lucifer gets an I–told–you–so look on his face that Crowley rolls his eyes at.

“I’m right here, you know,” says Ezra with a sigh, and Crowley feels a momentary pang of guilt for accidentally leaving him out of the conversation. “And I think they’re right, you should just stay with them for a while, dear. I just… don’t want to come home from work and see, you know…”

“That’s not going to happen, angel,” Crowley says, sobering up as he reaches over to place a kiss on Ezra’s knuckles, snorting when Gabriel’s eyes widen and he looks away.

Ezra doesn’t look convinced. “But what if it does?” he asks.

Exactly at that moment, the door opens, and Uriel barges in, grinning like a maniac as she tosses her school bag on a chair and sits on another next to it. “I can always sit with him,” she says, stretching her arms as she reclines on the chair. “It’s officially summer break, would be nice to spend it somewhere else other than at home.”

“How long have you been standing outside?” Crowley asks, furrowing his eyebrows as he stares at his baby sister.

“Long enough to know you’ve been arguing again about where you’re staying when you get out of here,” Uriel says, shrugging.

“It’s rude to eavesdrop, Uri,” sighs Gabriel. “And I thought I told you to not go anywhere alone for a while and use the chauffeur?”

_“Very_ rich kid of you, Gabby,” Lucifer says with a sideways glance. “And leave Uriel alone, you’ve been eavesdropping since you were younger than she is.”

“That’s only because you never told me anything,” Gabriel mumbles under his breath.

Crowley winces at Gabriel’s words, before clearing his throat to try and bring the conversation back on topic before anyone else starts spiralling. “Uriel’s got a point, she can stay with us for a while. I can take care of her.”

“You mean she’ll stay with _you_ to take care of _you,”_ replies Lucifer with a pointed look. “You’re gonna make our little sister into your babysitter?”

“Shut up, Lu,” Crowley says, scowling. “I’m not completely helpless, you know. Where’s Mika, anyway? I know _she’ll_ side with me.”

Lucifer rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. _“Of course_ she will, you’re always her favourite. And it’s your fault she’s not here right now, by the way, she’s been trying to sort through the legal mess you made when you decided to fake your death.”

_“Oh,”_ Crowley says, cringing internally. How could he have ever forgotten about _that?_

“It’s gonna be _fine,”_ says Uriel, still grinning as all eyes turn on her. “I already know what to do if something happens.”

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, I’ll just do what Lu did before,” Uriel replies, shifting so she can sit on the edge of the bed next to Crowley instead. “It’s easy enough to call 999.”

Crowley shares a knowing look with Lucifer, who shakes his head with a glare that he knows is his brother telling him not to tell their youngest anything, before Crowley leans his head on Ezra’s shoulder with a pleading look. “See, Ezra?” he says, batting his eyelashes for good measure. “We can keep each other company while you’re at work.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Ezra, fidgeting with the ring. “Are you sure you’re gonna be okay with just the two of you?”

“Of course we are,” replies Crowley and Uriel in perfect unison.

Ezra sighs, shaking his head fondly, and Crowley knows he’s already won.

Crowley almost regrets not letting Ezra carry him into their flat, as he sits absolutely out of breath on their sofa, waving off the two pairs of concerned eyes focused on him.

“I’m _fine,_ just a bit winded,” says Crowley, pressing a hand to his tight chest as he tilts his head back against the sofa’s backrest. “The guest room’s just down the hall if you want to put your stuff down.”

“Are you sure?” Uriel asks, staring at Crowley with furrowed eyebrows as she stands over him. Maybe this was a bad idea after all. “Wait, wasn’t this Lu’s old place?”

“Well, it’s mine now,” Crowley replies with a scowl, before his expression softens when he realises what he’s doing. “‘M sorry. I’ll be fine, Uri.”

Uriel pouts, seemingly mulling it over. Then she blinks, nodding her head slowly. “Alright. I need to take a nap, anyway,” she says, ruffling at Crowley’s hair as he frowns at her, before she tilts her head at Ezra’s direction. “Seeya, Ezra.”

“See you later, dear,” says Ezra, smiling back at her. “I’ll have dinner ready in a while.”

“Are you sure you’re alright, then?” Ezra asks, turning to Crowley as he sits in the empty space next to him, when Uriel’s out of sight. “I know you just don’t want your sister to worry, but we can drop by A—”

“Absolutely _not,”_ says Crowley, a little more forcefully than he’d meant to. “I’m sorry, angel, I just— We _just_ got home, I don’t want to see the walls of a hospital again for _at least_ one week.”

“If you say so…” sighs Ezra, leaning his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “You’ll tell me as soon as something’s wrong, right?”

Crowley smiles a small smile, sighing aloud. “Of course. I said no more secrets, remember? That includes _this,”_ he replies, gently tapping a hand to his chest for emphasis, wincing suddenly. Bad move, considering how sore it still is.

“Really, dear,” says Ezra, shifting closer to Crowley. “I have to say, though, you speak rather differently whenever you’re with your siblings.”

“Hm?” Crowley hums, wrapping an arm around Ezra. “How do you mean?”

“It’s just— I don’t know, you sound more… _crisp_ when you talk to them,” Ezra replies, frowning as his eyebrows furrow in thought.

And suddenly, Crowley understands.

“Oh, _that,”_ Crowley says, smiling sheepishly. “I will _try_ not to sound too posh around you again, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Ezra looks up at him, his eyes widening. “I’m not! It’s just— It _was_ disconcerting, the first few times, but I’m getting used to it now. Is that what you really sounded like, before?”

“Yup,” says Crowley, exhaling slowly as the tightness in his chest begins to subside. “Drilled into us by a succession of tutors, then reinforced by our parents’ social circle. You know, the usual story.”

“And of course he has tutors,” Ezra says in that “rich people are ridiculous” voice that Crowley’s grown rather fond of these days. “So why’d you stop using it?”

“Picked up East Anglian from the nurses the first time I was in the hospital, started using it occasionally just to annoy dear old Dad. Then after I ran away, I thought, why not use it permanently?”

“Your father sounds like a real piece of work,” Ezra comments.

“You don’t know half of it,” sighs Crowley, as he gives in to the heaviness behind his eyelids.

Uriel shows up in the kitchen’s doorway just as Crowley turns around and takes off the apron he’s wearing.

“Shouldn’t you be on bed rest?” she asks, barely able to contain her yawn behind her hands before she stretches her arms up.

“And a good morning to you, too,” Crowley says back with a grin as he sets the table, placing the steaming–hot waffles on the centre next to the maple syrup. “I made waffles!”

“Does Ezra know you’re out of bed?” says Uriel, eyeing her brother suspiciously as she takes a seat on the table and pokes a fork through the topmost waffle.

“No,” Crowley replies, taking another waffle for himself and slathering it with the syrup. “Do _not_ tell him.”

Uriel snatches the bottle of maple syrup away, sticking her tongue out and glaring. “You’re not supposed to overindulge in sweets,” she says, before pouring almost an equal amount of syrup on her own plate.

“Pot to kettle,” says Crowley, rolling his eyes. “What do you want to do today?”

“Are you just bribing me so I don’t snitch on you to Ezra?” Uriel says, narrowing her eyes before shoving a bite into her mouth.

“Why is it that every time I want to spend time with someone, they always think I’m just trying to bribe them?” complains Crowley, groaning as he drapes himself dramatically against his chair.

Uriel shrugs, continuing her breakfast unperturbed. “Probably because we’ve all done it at some point,” she says. “It’s a Christchurch trait.”

“Maybe so,” says Crowley, pouting as he places his elbow on the table and holds his chin with the same hand. “But what do you actually _want_ to do today?”

“Well, you’re not allowed to leave the flat or Ligur’ll have both our hides,” Uriel says, chewing at her bottom lip as she gets lost in thought. _“So_ we’ll just have to stay at home. Maybe you could tutor me?”

“I thought you said it’s your summer break?” asks Crowley, furrowing his eyebrows.

“It _is,”_ Uriel sighs, making a face. “But I have a tonne of schoolwork to catch up on, so.”

“Oh, right. Hospital,” replies Crowley, smiling thin–lipped, unfortunately knowing the feeling of having to catch up all too well. “Don’t worry, I’ll help.”

“But _why_ does it have to be two turns?” Uriel whines as she finishes braiding Crowley’s hair.

“Because you need 4 ATPs, that’s why,” says Crowley, exhaling aloud. _God_, he barely remembers the Krebs cycle himself. “Don’t tug at my hair so hard, please.”

Uriel blushes, looking sheepish. “Oh, sorry,” she says, draping the braid over Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley turns around, motioning for Uriel to do the same so he can comb her hair. “Remember when I used to brush your hair for you when you were little?” he asks. Comb through the ends first, he needs to remember that again.

“You were the only one who knew how to, I think,” replies Uriel with a nostalgic smile.

“Well, Ligur taught me,” says Crowley, gently untangling one of the knots on his sister’s hair.

Uriel hums. “Figures. He’s the one who always did my hair after…”

_“Oh,”_ says Crowley, who knows exactly what she’s talking about. “Hey, Uri?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you hate me?” he asks, biting at his lip in anticipation of her answer.

“No, of course not,” she says, clicking her tongue as she turns around to face him. “Why would I?”

“Gabe does,” sighs Crowley, looking away. “I left the both of you with Father, it’s alright if you blame me for whatever he did.”

“I don’t hate you, Anthony,” Uriel replies, shaking her head. “Sure, maybe sometimes I get cranky whenever someone tells me I act just like you, but… I can understand why you did what you did, and I don’t really blame you for it. I just wish…” she trails off, chewing at her lip. “I just wish we could’ve spent more time together, growing up.”

Crowley places a hand over his sister’s, squeezing it tightly. “I’m here now, Uri. Not going anywhere. I’ll make up for all those times, I promise.”

Uriel’s lip quivers as she stares at him, then she sniffles, going in for a hug that knocks the air out of Crowley’s lungs. “You better,” she says in a hoarse voice.

It takes exactly three weeks before they’re back again on a bed in A&E. On his birthday, to be exact. Well, at least Crowley got his wish.

Ezra arrives in record time, around ten minutes after Uriel had called him, which _is_ a feat, considering Crowley’s pretty sure Christchurch Towers is at least half an hour away from the hospital.

“What happened this time?” Ezra asks, and Crowley doesn’t even have to squint his eyes against the bright lights making his migraine worse to know how disappointed Ezra must look.

“Anthony had another AF episode,” Uriel answers for him, and Crowley’s eternally grateful his little sister’s here with him.

“I thought the ablation was supposed to fix that?” asks Ezra, as he closes the curtains behind him and sits on the plastic chair opposite Uriel’s.

“It _is,”_ replies Crowley, scrunching up his face as he feels another wave of nausea overtaking him. “I’m fine, I didn’t even pass out. Uri was just overreacting.”

“Anthony was _underreacting,”_ Uriel says dryly as Crowley rolls his eyes. He takes it back, anyone _but_ his baby sister has better bedside manners. “I cooked us birthday crêpes and he was just going to throw them all up.”

“Am _not,”_ insists Crowley with a scowl, before hissing in pain. “Was just a little dizzy, ‘s all.”

“You were green around the gills and you were wheezing, _of course_ I’d call an ambulance,” Uriel counters, scowling back, and _god,_ it makes her look so much like Mika whenever he’s done something stupid.

Crowley sighs, smiling wryly. “Yeah, but I’m alright now. Haven’t ruined our birthday yet. Much.”

Uriel hums, disbelieving.

“I’ll be _fine,”_ Crowley repeats himself. “You have my wallet, buy yourself some lunch. We’ll get cake later. I swear.”

Uriel frowns, narrowing her eyes at her brother. “I’m gonna max out your credit card in the cafeteria,” she replies after a while, before stomping out of the cubicle, just like Gabe used to do.

“It’s fine, Lu pays for it anyway,” Crowley calls out after her, laughing breathlessly when Uriel raises her middle finger at him in response.

“‘Our’ birthday?” Ezra asks, raising an eyebrow, when Uriel’s out of sight.

“We’re exactly seventeen years apart, what can I say?” Crowley replies with a shrug. “At least Mum only has to remember three birthdays.”

“Does that mean—”

“Yup,” Crowley yawns, blinking his eyes sleepily as he refuses to think about _that_. “It’s a long story, though. Don’t really have the energy to tell you about it right now.”

“Fair enough,” says Ezra, brushing light fingers over Crowley’s hair. “Does this mean I’ll have to cancel our dinner reservation for tonight?”

“Ngk,” says Crowley. “If I’m still just here, that means they won’t admit me. We can still make it to dinner.”

Ezra looks at Crowley intently, smiling at him patiently. “Talked to a nurse, actually. They’re keeping you in for observation.”

Crowley groans, shifting on the bed. “Dang it. And I was supposed to say something over dinner,” he mutters under his breath, thinking Ezra wouldn’t hear him.

“Oh?” asks Ezra, scrunching up his face. “What is it?”

Crowley’s heart stutters, inhaling sharply as he avoids Ezra’s curious gaze. “It’s just— Do you want— Let’s get married. Tomorrow.”

_“What?”_ Ezra exclaims, his voice rising up an octave as he stares incredulously at Crowley. “No— I mean, yes. _Of course._ But why so sudden?”

“Oh,” says Crowley. “I don’t know. I mean— You know my heart’s kinda unpredictable, right? I just— _want_ you to be taken care of, in case…”

“Anthony…” Ezra sighs, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Crowley’s ear. “That’s not gonna happen. Not for a long time yet.”

“I just want to be sure,” Crowley replies. “Besides, you’re gonna be set for life when you inherit my trust fund.”

Ezra swats at his hand, scowling. “I’m not marrying you for your money, you know that. I didn’t even _know_ you’re rich when I agreed to this.”

“Yeah, but you have to admit that’s a bonus,” says Crowley with a cheeky grin. “So, are we getting married tomorrow?”

“Anytime you want,” Ezra replies, settling down on the bed next to Crowley. “Happy birthday, dear.”

He’s half–asleep, held in Ezra’s arms laying next to him and sleeping soundly in the cramped hospital bed, when the rest of his siblings come in, heralded by the click of a door being shut. Crowley blearily opens his eyes, and he’s greeted by the sight of the twins, of Lu with that stupid overprotective big brother look on his face and Mika looking disappointed with him as always.

“Hey,” says Crowley, raising the hand not tangled up in Ezra’s to wave at his older siblings.

“Really, Raph?” Mika asks, crossing her arms over her chest. _“Again?_ This is why we keep telling you to just stay at home. Or at least let us hire you a nurse.”

Crowley shrugs with one shoulder, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. “Don’t need a nurse, I can take care of myself. I’m fine anyway, see?” he says instead. “And really? Stay at home with Mum _and _Gabby? I’m sure that’s gonna go over _so well.”_

Lucifer sighs, placing a hand under his chin as he glares at Crowley. “And what about Uriel? Hm?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “You’re gonna keep traumatising her for your pride?”

Crowley feels guilt stab through his chest. Alright, he deserves that one. “I’ll send her home,” he sighs. “I’m not letting her see one of these again, not if I can help it. She alright? Haven’t seen her since she went to grab some dinner.”

The twins exchange a look, and Michael sighs, pinching at the bridge of her nose.

“We saw her by the vending machine on our way here,” says Mika, frowning. “She’ll be back up here soon.”

“Something else you’re not telling me?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. He knows that look on the twins’ faces.

“She’s been crying,” Lu says, exhaling aloud. “You scared her, and not for the first time.”

_“Oh,”_ says Crowley, chewing at his lip. “I’ll send her home after tomorrow, don’t worry. What about Gabby? Where is he?”

“Having tea with Mrs Estrada,” replies Mika. “Probably ranting to the poor lady about you.”

Crowley snorts, grinning despite himself. Gabe’s always been a nanny’s boy. “Hey, guess what?” he asks.

“What?” the twins say at the exact same time.

“I’m getting married,” Crowley says, grinning even wider.

“We _know,”_ the twins say at the same time again, and Mika glares at Lu before she continues. “We’ve known since May. Not exactly news at this point.”

“No, I mean—” Crowley cuts himself off with a coughing fit, looking to the side when he recovers and sees Ezra still fast asleep. It makes Crowley smile fondly despite the whole situation, and Ezra _does_ deserve the nap. “We’re getting married tomorrow.”

_“What? But—”_ Lu says as his eyes widen, before he closes them again and breathes out slowly through his mouth. “There’s not enough time, Raph.”

“For what?” asks Crowley, blinking his eyes and feigning innocence. “We can just get married in the hospital, invite our friends over, no big deal.”

“Crowley, you _can’t_ get married in a hospital,” Mika says exasperatedly, sighing into her hands. “There are rules for that.”

“Such as…?”

_“Well,_ for starters, a special marriage license is only granted if you or your partner is te—” Mika’s eyes widen, as if she’s only now realising what Crowley had meant. “Oh, _no._ You are _not_ using that excuse.”

_“Well,_ I _mean…_”

_“No,”_ repeats Mika, and by the look on her face, Crowley knows his sister’s half of a mind to stomp out of the room. “You are _not_ dying.”

“We don’t know that, Mye,” Crowley says, trying to give a reassuring smile once he sees the emotions flickering across Mika’s face. “But we can just do it in the chapel downstairs if it bothers you. That one’s legal, yeah?”

“I— Yeah,” Mika says, finally settling down on a chair she’d pulled up. “It is, if you can ask a priest to solemnise.”

The screeching of the chair’s legs against the hardwood floor startles Ezra awake, and Crowley watches as Ezra blearily blinks his eyes open against the light.

“What’s happening?” Ezra asks, rubbing one hand against his eyelid as he uses the other as purchase to sit up.

“Nothing, love,” replies Crowley, smiling as he bends down to press a kiss on Ezra’s forehead. “The twins just got here, ‘s all.”

“Oh,” says Ezra, turning to the twins to greet them with a smile. “Have you told them yet?”

Crowley grins wider. “About us eloping tomorrow? Course I have.”

“That’s not—” Ezra says, staring at Crowley. “Wait, _are_ we _eloping?_”

“Well, we’re running off to get married at the earliest possible opportunity, so yes, I do guess we’re eloping,” says Crowley with a shrug. “Honestly, aren’t you the linguistics major?”

“Oh, stop harassing the poor man, Raph,” Lucifer says, scowling as he sits down next to Mika. “It hardly counts as an elopement, really, if you’ve been betrothed for months.”

_“Who still uses betrothed in the 21st century?”_ asks Crowley who’s never one to miss out on an opportunity to get a jab at their eldest brother.

“Boys, boys,” Mika says, her glaring enough to stop both of them from taking things any further. “Well, if you _must_ insist on getting married tomorrow, you’ll have to do it as Raphael Christchurch.”

_“Must_ I?” asks Crowley, scrunching up his brow in confusion. “I thought you were getting on that already?”

“You really have no idea how hard it is to do that, don’t you?” Mika replies with a long–suffering sigh. “I _can’t_ file for a name change deed poll if you’re legally still dead and you have _no clue_ how hard it is to try and reverse_ that.”_

“Can’t I just… show myself in court and be done with it?” Crowley asks, rather sheepishly.

_“No!” _screeches Mika. “That’s not how it works!”

“Okay, okay,” says Crowley, putting his hands up in surrender. “See, this is why you’re the solicitor between us.”

“Shut up, Raphael,” Mika hisses, and Crowley has to move back. “I’m doing this for Ezra, not for you.”

“Rude,” says Crowley, crossing his arms against his chest as he leans back against the bed. “How could you say that to me, your poor ill younger brother, on the day of my birthday?”

“I’m sure your sister means well,” says Ezra, who squeezes Crowley’s hand. “And it’s alright, we can just push the date back again if you’re not comfortable getting married under your old name.”

_Again._ There it was. Ezra might try his best to hide his disappointment away from Crowley, but he can always tell, anyway. He hates it, the creeping feeling of being a burden to everyone else around him. It’s why he’s run away in the first place, and now he’s gone right back to where he’s started.

Crowley shakes the thought free, leaning his head against Ezra’s. “It’s alright, I’m fine with getting married as Raphael Christchurch,” he says, pressing a kiss on Ezra’s temple. “We’ll just have to have another ceremony when everything’s been processed, shall we?”

Ezra clicks his tongue against his cheek. “Or we can just pay to have your name changed on the license when it comes?”

Crowley hums, pretending to mull it over. _“No,”_ he mouths. “Besides, you deserve a grander wedding after all this.”

“I already told you, Anthony,” says Ezra, rolling his eyes as he looks at Crowley. “The venue’s not important, I’ll marry you anywhere.”

Lu rolls his eyes, and before Crowley could throw another quip at his brother’s way, the door opens, revealing Uriel wearing a wide grin, carrying a pastry box in her hands.

“I brought cake!” Uriel says, raising the box to shoulder–level. “Ugh, are they being disgustingly sweet again?”

_“Yes,”_ the twins sigh in unison, before Lu turns to Uriel.

“Who gave you money for that?” their eldest brother asks, squinting suspiciously.

“Anthony gave me his credit card,” says Uriel, all chipper as if she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing.

Lucifer switches gears, turning to glare at Crowley with a great, big, long–suffering sigh. “And I suppose you expect me to foot the bill?”

“Well, that’s your job, isn’t it?” says Crowley, shrugging. “Head of the family and all that.”

“Bold of you to assume Mum and Gabe let me handle anything but my own finances,” Lucifer says with a wry smile. “Fine, I’ll pay for it. But only because it’s both your birthdays,” he concedes, pointing a finger at Crowley. _“So_ what did you buy, Uri?”

“Battenbergs!” Uriel announces gleefully as she places the box at the foot of the bed and takes off the cardboard cover, revealing several marzipan–coated sweets, enough to feed everyone in the room and more. “They ran out of Victoria sponges, so I got the next best thing.”

“Cannibalism,” Crowley quips under his breath, grabbing one of the Battenbergs before anyone else could, as Uriel swats at his hand with a scowl.

“What does that even mean?” asks Ezra, furrowing his eyebrows as he sits up straighter and gets a piece of his own.

Crowley looks up at his fiancé partway through a bite. “Remember when I told you Mum’s a Mountbatten?”

Ezra stares at him for a fraction of a second, and Crowley can spot the exact moment the gears click inside his head. _“Oh,”_ says Ezra.

“Yup,” Crowley replies with a nod, sinking into the pillows as he continues to chew. “This is nice. Haven’t spent my — _our_ — birthday like this in years,” he adds, quickly amending when Uriel gives him a glare.

“Not our fault if you ran away and missed us for ten years,” says Lucifer, shrugging and shifting in the chair as if he’s about to take a nap.

“Shut up, Lu,” says Crowley, flicking a crumb of cake in Lucifer’s direction that makes his brother sit up and scowl at his direction as he brushes the crumb off. “Just let me enjoy the moment.”


	34. Ivy

Getting married on a Sunday, as it turns out, was the farthest thing from easy, and so Crowley has to begrudgingly settle for the next best working day, that is, on Monday. In the meantime though, invitations have been sent out, both to wanted and unwanted guests, preparations have been made, papers have been processed, and everything else has been smoothed out. The ceremony itself couldn’t come soon enough.

Monday dawn brings with it clear blue skies, the perfect weather for a wedding. Crowley’s sitting up by the side of the bed, still admiring the view from his window, when there’s suddenly a knock on his door, followed by Mika entering the room with a garment bag in tow, in a burgundy twinset and a two–string pearl necklace that Crowley’s sure came from their mother’s collection.

“Ready?” Mika asks, laying the garment bag across the bed before sitting next to Crowley. “Picked the one closest to your size now from your old closet, not that you’ve changed drastically, anyway.”

“White?” says Crowley, raising an eyebrow. It never hurt to be sure.

Mika snorts, nudging him with her elbow. “Of course,” she says. “Well, the waistcoat, at least. Had to dig deep for one, too. You’ve never liked wearing lighter colours, always saying that—”

“That it makes me look more anaemic than I already am?” Crowley says, finishing the thought for her. “Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Unfortunately,” replies Mika with a shrug. “You know, there was a time Mum would’ve despaired about you not doing a proper fitting.”

“Oh? Did she say anything?”

“No, she just…” Mika groans, plopping down on the bed. “She just… _watched_ while I was picking out your clothes. I think she was tearing up.”

“Huh,” Crowley says simply. “Where’s Uriel?”

“Went to see Ezra first,” replies Mika. “Come on, turn around, let’s fix your hair.”

“Well?” Mika asks, holding up a mirror so Crowley can inspect her handiwork on his hair. “Do you like it?”

Crowley tilts his head from side to side, humming. Mika had outdone herself, really, with the double–braids pulling his hair out of his eyes and tying them together into a bun that frames the rest of his hair, falling in loose curls just to his shoulders. Ezra had asked if he’d wanted a haircut before the wedding, but Crowley had waved him off — he’s always _liked_ his hair long, but when you’re known for it and trying to remain under the radar, you make sacrifices.

Crowley supposes that he doesn’t need to make those kinds of sacrifices anymore.

“Looks great,” he says, leaning back against Michael’s midsection.

She guffaws at him, playfully smacking his shoulder. “Do _not_ ruin my hard work, Anthony,” she chides, setting the mirror on the table. “You should get dressed fairly soon. Don’t want to leave your fellow groom waiting, what with your habit of being late.”

“I prefer the term _procrastination_,” he teases, standing and unzipping the suit’s garment bag.

Mika rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest, and Crowley is beginning to realize how much she’s beginning to look and act like their mum.

“I don’t think you should _procrastinate_ spending the rest of time with the love of your life,” she quips back.

Crowley looks up at her, raising an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s your excuse with Bee, then, hm? Been together for a while, and I haven’t seen a ring on either of you,” he croons.

Mika turns beet red, and she sputters for a moment before she manages to get anything out, gesturing wildly with her hands before she returns to her crossed–arm stance, albeit much more embarrassed this time. “That’s— That’s— This isn’t about _me!”_

“Isn’t it?” asks Crowley, sitting up again as he faces his sister. “You know dear old Dad’s isn’t around anymore, right? What else could possibly be stopping you from tying the knot?”

Mika straightens her blouse, avoiding Crowley’s curious gaze as she does. “I don’t know, it’s just— We’ve just never talked about it, I guess?”

“Well, you should,” Crowley says, pushing himself up from the bed so he can put on the suit Mika had brought — slowly, he can’t very well afford to collapse on his wedding day of all days. “You never know what happens tomorrow.”

“That coming from personal experience?” asks Mika, raising an eyebrow as she watches him walk towards the en suite.

“Maybe,” replies Crowley glibly, frowning momentarily at Mika before breaking into a grin.

“You need help with that suit?”

“No, thanks, I got it,” he says, toning down the grin as he waves his hand at his sister before closing the door.

Mika’s already waiting for him with the wheelchair when Crowley comes out of the bathroom, and Crowley clicks his tongue, shaking his head. It simply wouldn’t do.

“What?” says Mika, furrowing her eyebrows.

“No, it’s just—” Crowley says, tugging at the hems of his waistcoat before he buttons up the morning coat over it, the ivory waistcoat a silk and wool blend embroidered with multicoloured birds and botanicals, the morning coat in black herringbone lined with silver. “I kind of wanted to walk on the aisle?”

“Alright,” sighs Mika, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Get in the chair.”

“What? But I just s—”

“No, I heard what you said,” Mika replies, smiling indulgently at Crowley. “Just trust me here, I _will _let you walk on the aisle.”

Mika stops the wheelchair right beside the doors of the chapel, just out of sight from the guests gathered inside. Anathema’s leaning against a nearby wall, waiting for the two of them as she carries a bouquet of tulips, dahlias, anemones, and gardenias, all in white and framed by sprigs of baby’s breath flowers. She herself is wearing a strap fit and flare dress of checked blue and white, cinched at the waist with her usual black leather buckled belt. Crowley waves at her with one hand as he and Mika come to a stop, grinning as he uses the other to help him stand up from the chair.

“See, I told you I’ll let you walk on the aisle,” Mika says, still smiling as she helps Crowley to his feet and straightens out the wrinkles on the back of his morning coat.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” replies Crowley, waving her off and yet grateful to his sister all the same. “Oh, is that for me?” he adds, turning to Anathema. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Shut up, AJ,” Anathema says with a good natured scowl as she hands him the bouquet. “Go in there, they’re all waiting for you,” she adds, as she all but pushes Crowley through the doors in full view of everyone, Mika still holding his arm to keep him steady.

“Really?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at his sister.

“Really,” says Mika, shrugging with one shoulder as they walk down the aisle. “Besides, it’s not like you want _Mum_ doing this for you, do you?”

“Got me there,” Crowley acquiesces, leaning closer to Mika and smiling as they near the altar, where Ezra’s already waiting in a red waistcoat, a sprig of baby’s breath serving as his boutonnière to match the bouquet, standing next to—

_Why is Gabbers Ezra’s best man?_

He looks to Mika for an answer, but Mika just shrugs back before handing him over to Ezra and leaving for her place in the front pew, sandwiched between Luci and Bee.

_“Why?”_ Crowley mouths at Ezra, taking his fiancé’s hand as he does.

“I figured, why not?” Ezra whispers back as they both turn and face the altar. “It’s about time, isn’t it?”

Crowley doesn’t dignify the question with a reply, still perturbed about the whole thing.

Crowley can barely remember most of the ceremony, only that the sermon took ages longer than he’d have preferred. He’s pretty sure he’d drifted off at some point, too, but, oh well. They’ll have another one after all this is over, anyway, and that one Crowley’s going to make sure he’ll etch into memory.

He’d bought the wedding rings at the same time as the one he’d used to propose to Ezra, antique silver bands with a Celtic knot filigree all around the metal, so sure was he that Ezra was going to say yes. Crowley smiles as Mika walks up to him and hands him the ring box — he’d asked Lu to drop by the flat and grab them from his nightstand drawer last night.

“Well, Dr Crowley, do you like the style?” asks Crowley with a cheeky smile as he slips the ring onto Ezra’s finger.

“Still looks a tad bit too modern for my taste, Mr Fell, but I suppose they’ll do,” Ezra replies, and at Crowley’s displeased pout, he adds. “Of course I do like them, my dear, don’t look like that.”

“God, you have no idea how much I want to kiss you right now,” whispers Crowley as he stares into Ezra’s baby blue eyes.

“Behave,” Ezra says fondly, smiling himself. “Wait for the signal first, you rascal.”

Sure enough, the officiant gives the signal for them to kiss, and Crowley almost ravishes Ezra right then and there if only it wasn’t going to scandalise the guests or his own irrational thought that his heart might give out from sheer happiness.

Crowley had been aware that the nurses helped to dress up the garden for the reception they’d been planning, but as Ezra pushes him in his chair, he has to admit they’d definitely outdone themselves with it. There aren’t too many decorations, considering it was all very quickly put together, a few vases with white flowers in them, mostly calla lilies and gardenias and sprigs of baby’s breath that match Crowley’s bouquet and some neatly folded napkins atop folding tables laid with ivory–coloured paisley brocade tablecloths that he’s pretty sure Mum only breaks out on special occasions. She should be here somewhere, hiding from view — Ezra had convinced him to extend her an invitation, and Crowley hadn’t the heart to refuse.

“Ready, my love?” Ezra asks, extending a hand towards Crowley with a smile, distracting him from any further thoughts.

Crowley takes Ezra’s hand, smiling back. “Always.”

There’s a cake in the centrepiece of the table reserved for the newlyweds, not really all that large, just two tiers with white icing making up the base, with small blue and white flowers piped around to decorate. It’s topped off with two grooms, one with red hair and another with blond. Crowley hopes they didn’t get it custom made, but knowing everyone else in this family, it probably is. 

“You got us a cake?” Crowley asks as he and Ezra walk over to it, turning to Lucifer standing nearby. 

Lu shrugs, trying to look nonchalant. “Mye’s idea,” he says, elbowing their sister’s shoulder.

Mika rolls her eyes, taking out a fancy–looking cake knife and server from a bag, and Crowley is pretty sure he recognizes the set.

“Was that Mum’s?” he asks.

“Nope,” she corrects, handing it to him. “I bought you a new one. I didn't think you’d mind.”

Crowley nods and hands the knife over to Ezra for him to take, and Crowley puts a hand over his new husband’s (and _God _does that make him feel warm inside) as they take the first slice out of their wedding cake. The first slice is set aside quickly, but not before Ezra swipes a finger through it and before Crowley can get away, deposits a glob of icing onto Crowley’s nose.

“You’re a menace,” Crowley tells him, pulling him close to press a kiss to his cheek, and, in turn, get icing on the side of Ezra’s face.

Ezra beams at him, bright as the sun, and Crowley takes his hand, as Mika sighs and takes the knife from the table to serve the guests cake, since neither of them obviously couldn’t be trusted not to get distracted.

“Hey, are you crying?” Crowley teases when he goes round the table, still giddy, and sees his sister’s face.

“No, I just—” says Mika, putting down the cake knife before rubbing at her eye, smearing some of her mascara in the process as she sits down, sniffling. “Just got some dust in my eye, that’s all. It’s a little dry today, isn’t it?”

“You _are, _aren’t you?” Crowley asks again, sitting next to Mika as he watches Ezra chat up the guests with a smile. “Come on, what is it?”

_“Nothing,”_ Mika insists, sitting up straighter. “It’s just— I don’t know, I just never thought I’d see the day my baby brother gets married.”

Crowley stretches his arms up, groaning as his joints pop. “Well, if it makes you feel better, the rate it’s going, I’ll never see _you_ get married.”

Mika clicks her tongue, shaking her head disapprovingly. “You really have to stop saying that, you know,” she says, as she rolls her eyes. “It was annoying when you were seventeen, it’s more annoying now.”

“What, saying that I’m dying? Well, it’s true,” he replies, biting at his lip. “We all are, just at different speeds. And that’s not even what I’m talking about right now. All I’m saying is that if you keep trying to make excuses you might never get the chance.”

“Fine,” sighs Mika. “I’ll ask, but not tonight. Now, shoo,” she says, motioning with her hands. “Enjoy your reception. You’ve earned it.”

Crowley flits over towards Ezra, who was still chatting up Anathema and someone who he can only assume must be Madame Tracy, hooking his arm around Ezra’s waist that makes Ezra freeze and blush a hot shade of crimson.

“What?” says Ezra, trying to spin around to face Crowley, but Crowley refuses to let him go.

“I think it’s time for our first dance,” Crowley whispers in Ezra’s ear, and Ezra blushes even deeper, as if Crowley had just proposed something indecent in public.

Crowley gently tugs him into the centre of the gazebo as he gestures to Michael to hit play on his mobile, which he’d given her to set up to a speaker.

“Is this Queen?” Ezra asks, looking up at Crowley. 

“I’m teaching you well,” he laughs quietly, pulling Ezra closer to him to rest his forehead against Ezra’s. They start to sway slowly with the music, and Crowley’s pretty sure he’s never been happier. “I _am_ sorry that this isn’t fancier.”

“I don’t care about fancy, Anthony,” Ezra replies. “I just care that I got to marry you.”

“We’ll have to do it again, you know, when my name’s officially changed,” he says. _“Technically_ right now you’re a Christchurch, not a Crowley.”

“Well then maybe you can be a Fell until then,” Ezra jokes. “Maybe we’ll both be Crowley–Fell, when this is all said and done.”

Crowley laughs and presses a kiss to Ezra’s temple. “I’m amenable to that arrangement,” he teases, smiling.

It’s a nice peace, just the two of them away from everyone and everything. There is a very poorly–concealed wink at the line that says _You’ve broken my heart_ and Crowley has to avoid breaking out into laughter at the face Ezra makes at him, but the rest of the dance goes without any poorly–made jokes.

As the song ends and fades into another one, Ezra’s face lights up in recognition.

“Oh, darling, my favourite,” he says, leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth.

Crowley laughs as a response, closing his eyes a moment. “I thought a little number by Saint–Saëns would be a nice touch, since you’re not a fan of anything made after the sixties,” he teases.

Ezra puffs his cheeks out in a pout, but it doesn’t last terribly long as Crowley presses a kiss to his lips in an apology. He can hear Uriel make a dramatic gagging noise near them — typical younger sister trying to embarrass him, he supposes — but he pays it no mind, considering how long he’s waited for this to become a reality.

As the song winds down, Ezra stumbles a bit over one of Crowley’s feet — hardly noticeable really, but his cheeks flush a little pinker when he looks up at Crowley, who raises a hand to cup his cheek. He could stay like this forever, if someone would allow it.

“I’m gonna have to teach you how to dance at some point,” Crowley says, catching his breath as they finally come to a stop in the middle of the venue.

“Oh, well,” replies Ezra, still flushed and out of breath himself as he smiles. “I suppose you do.”

“You don’t even know how to dance, either,” says Lucifer, who had snuck up on them somehow. “You used to step on my feet all the time when Mum sent us to those lessons.”

“We were having a _moment, Alex,”_ Crowley hisses, narrowing his eyes as he turns around to face his brother. “What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing. You know you get a look on your face when you’re winded and about to pass out?” asks Lu, shrugging as he places a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Well, you have that exact look on your face right now. Ezra, if I may? I just need my stupid baby brother to sit down for a while.”

“I— _Of course,”_ Ezra replies, blinking momentarily.

“You don’t mind?” says Crowley, who feels woozy and just now realizing that Lu’s irritatingly correct. Again.

Ezra shakes his head, smiling softly. “No, of course not,” he says as he cups a hand to Crowley’s cheek. “You do look like you need a break. We shouldn’t have danced twice in a row, really. Go sit down with your brother, I’ll be fine talking with the guests.”

“God, I love you so much,” says Crowley, stealing a quick peck to Ezra’s cheek before Lucifer drags him away completely.

Lucifer unceremoniously deposits Crowley on the table reserved for family members, whose occupants were nowhere to be seen, except for a lone brunet, and frankly bored–looking, preteen in a suit he’s clearly uncomfortable in and who strikingly looks to Crowley like a blast from the past.

The kid looks up as Crowley and Lucifer sit on the table, and as Crowley looks at his brother for answers, the kid speaks up first.

“I’m Adam,” he says, staring at Crowley with the sort of mischievous grin he remembers his brother having at this same age. “Mum says I should be nice, because you’re ill and I’m named after you, but Dad says you’re an idiot.”

“Oh, he did, didn’t he?” says Crowley, side–eyeing Lucifer who in turn was looking disapprovingly at his hellspawn. “What else did he say?”

“That it’s also your wedding and I shouldn’t tell you that,” Adam replies, picking at a crab cake that he shoves into his mouth. “But Mum says I should always tell the truth so I told you that, anyway.”

That elicits a chuckle from Crowley, which only make Lu glare harder at both of them. “Fair enough,” he says. “Always listen to your mother, Adam. She’s clearly the one with common sense.”

_“There’s_ my favourite nephew,” Uriel announces as she approaches the table.

“You don’t have another nephew,” all three (technically) Christchurches say at the same time.

_“My_ favourite nephew,” she repeats more forcefully with a glare. “Whom I have been looking for all evening,” Uriel says, tugging Adam to his feet. “Come on, let’s go dance.”

Lucifer nods in assent as Uriel and Adam look to him, and Uriel’s grin grows larger, dragging Adam off to the dance floor as Adam puts on a defeated air that makes Crowley laugh under his breath.

_“God,_ sometimes I forget how much younger Uriel is,” says Crowley, as he watches Uriel trying to convince Adam to dance with her. “Look at them, it’s like _he’s_ her brother and not us.”

“Well, they _do_ only have a gap of, what? Six years?” Lucifer replies, leaning back in his chair as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Still feels like yesterday when his mother almost broke my hand squeezing at it during labour, though.”

Crowley snorts, turning around to face Lucifer. “Eh, you kinda deserve it. You did knock her up and all,” he says. “Did you really name your kid after me? I’m touched, Lu.”

“I swear to god if you say something about that again, I’ll kick your arse, hospitalised or no,” says Lucifer, groaning as he rolls his eyes. “Besides, that was Deirdre’s idea, not mine. But yes, Adam Raphael.”

“He looks _exactly_ like Gabby did at that age,” Crowley observes, as Uriel finally convinces Adam to dance awkwardly with her. At least he _thinks_ they’re dancing, they just look like two soggy noodles wiggling on the dance floor to him.

“Yup,” replies Lucifer, reaching over to steal the remaining crab cake off his son’s plate.

“Which means he’ll also look _exactly_ like Father when he grows up,” says Crowley finishing the thought.

“Unfortunately.”

“Makes me wish he were here right now,” he adds, when it feels like his brother won’t respond to the prodding. “If only so I can see his reaction when he realises the grandson whose existence he threw his heir out for and then refused to acknowledge looks just like him.”

“Oh, that would be a sight to behold,” says Lucifer, snorting. “He’d probably have an apoplexy and die on the spot.”

“Wait,” Crowley says, scrunching up his face as he realises something. “If he calls _you _Dad, whatever does he call Art?”

_“Also_ Dad,” replies Lucifer with a great big sigh. It’s obvious that he’s had this conversation before. “I have no idea why he keeps on doing it. I’m pretty sure Deirdre told him to just to vex me specifically.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” mocks Crowley.

“Are you happy then?” his brother asks, as Crowley stares off into the golden sunset.

“Never been happier,” he replies. “I wish this moment could last forever.”

After the day’s festivities, Crowley _is_ a little glad to be back in a hospital bed. The nurses have let Ezra stay for the night, though with many little winks and innuendos that made Ezra blush and Crowley laugh, which he was eagerly taking up, considering Crowley’s to be released early the next morning, anyway. That brings them to now — the both of them in the hospital bed, Crowley snuggled into Ezra’s shoulder.

“Some honeymoon, huh?” Crowley says. “I wish we could’ve spent it somewhere else nicer.”

Ezra wraps his arm around Crowley’s shoulders, giving him a little squeeze. “I don’t care where we are, as long as I’m with you.”

“Ez—”

“I’m serious,” Ezra says, gently interrupting. “Anthony _Jonah_ Crowley, I don’t care _where_ we are or _how _we get there or _what_ it is, I just care that you’re with me,” he adds, as Crowley reaches for Ezra’s free hand, which is eagerly given to him. “I almost lost you once, my love, I don’t want to lose you again.” 

“Not gonna lose me,” Crowley replies, turning his head so that his forehead rests against the juncture between Ezra’s throat and collarbone. If he holds especially still, he can feel Ezra’s pulse against his cheek. “Here for good this time. Even if this goes wrong, I’ll just go to the top of the transplant list. ‘M not gonna leave.”

Ezra hums, squeezing Crowley’s hand. “I don’t think it will come to that, dear.”

“Never know. But, well, mind over matter,” Crowley offers, as they sit in silence for a moment longer. “This is nice, you know, except for the hospital bit. Me and you just lying together.”

“Not what _you_ had in mind for a honeymoon either, I’m sure,” Ezra says, laughing. “When you’re feeling better maybe we’ll take a trip. Your brother is letting me work from home, after all.”

Crowley sits up suddenly, blinking his eyes at Ezra. “He is?”

“Mhm. He said that Uriel could still stay with us if she’d like, but he was worried about you. Says he’ll swing paperwork by for me every day if he needs to.”

Crowley nods, taking a while to process _that_. He’s happy that they’re getting along, at least, as he lays down again and rests his head against Ezra’s shoulder.

“You know, it’s no wonder he is the way he is, from what I’ve heard of your father.”

“We’re all a little fucked from daddy dearest,” Crowley huffs. “I’m glad you two are getting along. Was a bit more than shocked to see him standing up there with you.”

Ezra laughs, leaning his head against Crowley’s. “It was nice to get along with him. He’s very awkward, it’s a bit endearing really,” he says. “I never realized he was so young.” 

“Trauma adds a couple years, y’know,” Crowley teases, as Ezra snorts in response. “I’m glad you’re okay with dealing with everyone. They can be a lot.”

Ezra presses a kiss to Crowley’s temple. “It’s nice, to be a part of a family again after such a long time. We should get some rest if we’re going home early tomorrow, love.”

“Right,” Crowley says, settling in. “Love you, Ez.”

“I love you too, Anthony.” 


	35. Holly

“Mum’s inviting us to spend the holidays at home,” says Crowley, tossing his phone to the side as he splays his arms out on the bed again. “Thinks it’ll be better for us to wait out this barrage there than here at the flat.”

“But how are we going to get out?” Ezra asks, brushing his fingers through Crowley’s hair. It’s not like he’s _opposed_ to staying with Crowley’s family, but Crowley himself might wish otherwise. “They’re here night and day, I don’t think we can just slip out without anyone noticing.”

Crowley looks up at Ezra, his expression softening. They can’t even go out to buy groceries without cameras pointed at their faces from all directions anymore, ever since some enterprising journalist spotted them with Mika and connected the dots together. It’s been one exhausting week, and Ezra doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this amount of media attention. Hopefully, they’ll tire of it soon enough.

“I’m sorry,” he says with a sad smile on his face. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. This wouldn’t have happened in the first place if I never went and muddled it all up.”

Ezra frowns, touching a finger to the tip of Crowley’s nose. “We’re married, dear,” he says. “Your problems are my problems.”

“I’m not sure the marriage vows actually include that,” says Crowley, pulling himself up across the bed so his face is at the same level as Ezra’s, his warm breath tickling Ezra’s cheek. “But I’ll take you up on it. Anyway, Lu’s already working on an escape plan for us. We’ll be out of here by the weekend. Pack a bag or two, and we’ll go for a visit.”

_“This _is where you grew up?” Ezra asks, looking out the window as they pull up, still a bit in shock at the gilded wrought–iron gates they’d just passed by, with the magnificent coat of arms right smack at its centre in full view.

(“Don’t let Gabby tell you the charges are leopards. We all know they’re just cats,” Crowley had said, and Ezra had just laughed nervously.)

Crowley sighs, frowning uncomfortably as he shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Yep. Astworth House,” he replies. “From birth to age twenty–three.”

“And _you’re_ the lucky husband that gets to see his old room,” Lucifer adds from the driver’s seat, looking a bit too smug for Ezra’s liking, but Ezra’s also beginning to realise that Lucifer’s default setting is _smug_. It’s oddly comforting in some ways, and in others, it’s completely unbearable.

“We are _not_ staying in my old room,” groans Crowley. “There are _dozens _of others. I’m sure Mum wouldn’t want me disturbing anything in there, anyways.”

_“Dozens?”_ Ezra echoes faintly, as he reaches up front to offer a hand for Crowley to hold, which he eagerly takes, as Lucifer snorts in laughter. The longer Ezra is around Crowley’s siblings, the more he realizes that they _act_ like siblings. Even the ones that have kept more distance.

“It’ll be _fine,”_ Lucifer says as he pulls the car up to a stop at the front of the house.

“That is not a _house,_” Ezra says. “This— It’s _huge,”_ he exclaims, as he steps out of the car and looks around wide–eyed at the humongous Elizabethan architectural monstrosity. “Crowley, is that a _peacock?”_

“Mum’s favourite children,” Lucifer says with a laugh as he shuts the door of the driver’s seat, startling the bird into running away. “She’s named them all. We have no idea how she knows which is which.”

Ezra nods, a bit disconnected, seeing as he’s still taking in the enormity of the house (_how is it still a house?)_ that stands proudly in front of him, the gleaming limestone structure almost as white as the snow around them. He stares on, wondering just what sort of upbringing a child growing up here would have had.

Crowley nudges him suddenly, and Ezra’s snapped out of his thoughts as Crowley hands him his own luggage, and takes Crowley’s own bag as well when Crowley looks as if he’s going to carry it himself.

“None of that now,” Ezra says, shaking his head. “Nothing to tax your heart.”

“It’s just a _bag, _Ezra,” whines Crowley, making a face. “I won’t keel over from carrying a bag, I’m not _that_ fragile.”

Ezra gives him a look, and Crowley groans dramatically, though he doesn’t move to take the bag back — a wise decision, considering Ezra could easily take it back and move faster than Crowley can — as he begins the walk to the door — not even a _door_, it’s a bloody _gatehouse_ — as Ezra follows behind him with the bags, blinking in disbelief as Lucifer hits a few buttons and the gate opens to the house itself. From there it’s a short walk to the _actual _door of the house, and Lucifer pushes the double doors open, loudly announcing their entrance, before winking at them and disappearing into the halls.

The echo of the _tap–tap–tap_ of sock–clad feet bounces off the halls, and Ezra is tackled into a hug by his new youngest sister–in–law.

“Ezra!” Uriel squeaks, pulling away. “I’m so glad you came along. Your first Christmas with us! And your first Christmas married! It’s a big deal, y’know, and we get to show you around!”

“Very exciting indeed,” Ezra replies, laughing. Uriel has quickly wormed her way into his heart — which isn’t particularly hard, seeing that she’s quite a sweet and bright girl — and it’s nice to see her back to her normal self after Crowley’s incident while she was staying with them at their flat. “Is there a place to set our bags?”

“You can leave them there, I’ll have someone drop them off at Anthony’s old room. You guys can sleep in the one next door to it if you want,” she says.

Ezra nods, still unsure, as he sets the bag down and tries not to dwell on the _someone will drop them off_ aspect of that particular sentence. Uriel is already leading Crowley down the hall so Ezra follows behind them, taking in the high–set ceilings and the art hanging on the walls, or in some cases, painted _on_ the walls. It’s like walking through a living museum, and Ezra is suddenly keenly aware that he does not belong here, not in this part of Crowley’s life.

They pass through what Ezra assumes to be the foyer, and his eyes find an oil painting hanging above the fireplace, pausing in front of it. He immediately recognizes it as a family portrait — it must have been commissioned shortly before Crowley’s disappearance, considering Uriel looks school–age in it.

“Oh, _that,”_ says Uriel, as if having a thousand–pound oil portrait on a mantelpiece is normal. “I have no idea when Gabe pulled the cover off it. I told him he should probably have it restored first, but no one ever listens to me.”

Ezra turns his head, realising that both Christchurch siblings have also stopped walking, standing behind him. “I—”

“Huh, you still have it,” Crowley says, feigning indifference as his eyes glaze over the portrait. “We should have a new one commissioned, I look stupid in this one. And include Ezra in the new one, he’s part of the family now, after all,” he adds, hooking his arm around Ezra’s waist and pulling him closer.

“I— What— _No!” _ Ezra screeches indignantly, but his eyes still flick between the sullen, serious boy in the portrait standing behind his mother and the flesh–and–blood man grinning crookedly before him, wondering what had passed. Crowley still refuses to talk about parts of it, and Ezra’s never one to push.

“Are you sure?” asks Crowley, kissing the side of Ezra’s head. “You’ve got a face that could inspire masterpieces. Proper cherub, you are, angel.”

“You two are gross,” Uriel says, sticking her tongue out. “Get a room. There are plenty of them, after all, just pick one.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, and nudges Uriel along down the hall into what Ezra assumes is the main kitchen.

“Hungry?” asks Uriel as they round the kitchen counter. “Gabe made sandwiches for lunch.”

Crowley shrugs and walks to the counter, picking one up. “Didn’t get the chef to make them?” he asks. 

_“Wh—”_ squeaks Ezra, his face blanching.

“Er— I'm kidding, angel,” Crowley says, smiling sheepishly as he turns to Ezra. “Chefs only come in for major meals.”

“Huh…” says Ezra, making a face.

“Major meals, you mean like Christmas dinner?” Uriel asks through a mouthful of the sandwich.

“Maybe so,” replies Crowley, staring forlornly at the sandwich in his hand before placing it back on the plate. “Why this kitchen, anyway? The other kitchen’s more complete. Also, I’m pretty sure that one’s closer to Gabby’s room.”

“You and I both know no one but the staff has entered that kitchen in the past 17 years,” Lucifer says as he reappears by the doorway, his words delivered with such a sting that Ezra immediately knows there must be a story behind them.

“Still?” asks Crowley, wincing as he pulls out a chair and sits down on it, sighing aloud.

“Can you blame him?” Lucifer says with a shrug, grabbing a sandwich himself and making a face when he takes a bite. “I haven’t had marmite in years.”

“Quit whining about it, you sound like an American,” says Uriel, licking the crumbs off her thumb. “Well, someone’s sleepy.”

“Try evading the press and travelling across the country while ill, see if you don’t get exhausted,” Crowley shoots back, before he immediately yawns and proves Uriel’s point as she watches him with a smug grin.

“You should go up to your room for now,” says Lucifer, sighing.

Crowley looks up, blinking his eyes slowly. “Which one?” he asks.

“I already told you which one,” replies Lucifer, raising an eyebrow.

_“No,”_ whines Crowley, slumping onto the table’s surface.

_“Yes,”_ says Lucifer, fixing his brother a hard stare. “Besides, Mum already had the incriminating evidence cleared out, so it’s not going to be that embarrassing for you.”

“Who let _Mum_ into my room in the first place?” groans Crowley, glaring at Lucifer with a frown.

“Well, you _did_ die,” Lucifer says with a smirk. “Two years after you left, your room became free game.”

_“God,_ I hate you,” says Crowley, groaning as he stands up, leaning his hand on the table.

“Dizzy, dear?” Ezra asks, approaching and resting a hand on Crowley’s side. Worry shoots through him, flashing across his face.

“‘M _fine,”_ Crowley replies, brusquely brushing off Ezra’s attempts to help. “An afternoon nap does sound great right now, actually. Besides, it’s high time you saw my room, anyways,” he adds, shooting a glare at his brother’s direction.

Crowley leads him to the east wing of the house, where all the bedrooms are, explaining how everyone’s rooms used to be a fair distance from each other’s for maximum privacy, but that everyone moved rooms to be closer to him in their overprotectiveness after _the incident, _as he refers to it.

They pass through a maze of hallways, until they finally emerge out into another lined with oil paintings of the previous Barons Christchurch, their titles etched out in neat calligraphy on the bottom of the wooden frames, and Crowley turns towards Ezra with a cheeky grin, breathlessly talking to Ezra about each one.

“That’s the second baron. Turned down Elizabeth’s offer of Essex because he thought the title might be cursed,” Crowley says with a shrug before he turns Ezra’s attention to another portrait. “And that’s the tenth. Married Ligur’s grandfather’s aunt, so I guess that means we’re distant cousins, too, really.”

They get to the end of the hall, and Ezra pauses at the portrait staring at him with a stern expression, a question forming at the tip of his tongue.

“I thought you said Lucifer is the current baron?” he asks, turning his head towards Crowley, who’s still walking seemingly oblivious to the fact that Ezra had stopped. “This is Gabriel’s portrait, isn’t it?”

“What?” says Crowley, retracing his steps to stand next to Ezra, following his gaze. “Oh, that’s not… That’s not Gabey,” he declares, his eyes glazing over behind his glasses. “That’s our father.”

_“Oh,”_ Ezra says simply. So there _was_ a reason why everyone always ends up mentioning their father in the same breath as Gabriel, after all. Ezra tears his gaze away from the portrait of his father–in–law, scuffing his heel against the gleaming hardwood flooring as he nervously bites at the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah,” says Crowley, sighing. “I think that’s why he’s Father’s favourite out of all of us, in his own twisted sense of the word.”

Ezra looks up at Crowley, and sees an unreadable expression etched into his face — grief, perhaps, or more likely, anger.

“Right,” Crowley says, stretching his arms up with a groan. “Let’s go, angel. Room’s waiting for us. Can’t wait to curl up in bed, either.”

They reach the room eventually, and Crowley runs his hands over the faded glow–in–the–dark stars on the door, surrounding a plastic nameplate bearing the name Raphael in Crowley’s own neat cursive on the paper slid into it, before Crowley shakes his head, pushing the door open.

The first thing Ezra notices are the stars, the same as the ones stuck to the door. They’re all over the room, covering every nook and cranny not covered by band posters or scientific diagrams. Even the ceiling has them, as if Crowley had tried recreating the constellations at some point.

“Same as you left it?” Ezra asks, turning to Crowley.

“Same as I left it,” replies Crowley, gazing to his left. “Seems like someone rifled through here and grabbed my laptop and some journals, though. I bet it’s Uri. Oh, and the oxygen tank. Used to be next to the bed, on that empty space beside the nightstand.”

Ezra hums, nodding as he looks around. There’s a wardrobe immediately to his right, big enough that he’s sure he can fit inside it _twice,_ and a queen–sized four–poster bed pushed against the corner, the sheets newly–replaced. Their bags are already placed on its foot, next to a Stradivarius that makes Ezra’s eyes widen. Two dressers stand under the window, upon one of which a telescope is mounted. In front of the dressers, occupying the centre of the room, is a shag rug, where two beanbag chairs sit. As Ezra follows Crowley into the room, he spots a telly mounted on the wall next to the door, and as he closes it behind him, he spots a previously–obscured acoustic guitar, as well as an antique writing desk, which is what Crowley must have been staring at. Near that is another door, left slightly ajar, leading to an en suite bathroom. Finally, next to that door, is a bookcase, completely filled up with both classics and textbooks.

Crowley crosses the room and plops down on the bed, sighing. “Bed feels the same too,” he says, curling up on his side. “C’mere, angel, might as well break it in.”

Ezra scoffs, and Crowley rolls his eyes. “With a nap, I mean!”

“Of course,” Ezra teases, walking over and settling in next to Crowley.

Crowley slings his arm over Ezra’s middle and shifts to lay his head on his shoulder, sighing again, completely out of breath from the tour.

“I’ll wake you up closer to dinner?” he asks, brushing away the hair that fell over Crowley’s face.

Crowley nods, falling asleep quickly, while Ezra sets an alarm on his phone, before making his back to the kitchen.

Uriel’s the only one still in the kitchen when Ezra gets there, drinking milk straight from the carton. Ezra stares at his sister–in–law disapprovingly as he sits on the table, and Uriel just shrugs, chugging down the rest of it before throwing the empty carton into the trash bin.

“Anthony asleep?” she asks, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Yes,” Ezra replies, taking a sandwich from the plate at last. “He’d spent most of the ride up to here napping, too.”

“He’s just hibernating,” Uriel shrugs, taking up the seat across from him. “It’s winter, after all.”

Ezra sighs, before nibbling at the edge of the sandwich. “You’re probably right,” he says. “Where do you buy your loaves? I haven’t had this particular type of bread before.”

“Oh, Gabe baked them this morning,” replies Uriel, as Ezra stares at her incredulously. “Apparently Mrs Estrada made him do all kinds of chores to make him settle down when he was a kid.”

“Huh…” Ezra says, staring at the sandwich in his hand. Stranger things have happened, after all. “Do you know what happened in the other kitchen they were talking about?” he asks, attempting to steer the topic away from his boss before it could get more awkward.

“Oh,” says Uriel, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, and Ezra immediately regrets asking. “Erm, well… I wasn’t _born_ yet back then, but… That was where he’d almost died, the first time. Anthony, I mean.”

Ezra nods without a word, setting the sandwich aside as he feels his appetite leaving him.

“Mika’s arriving tomorrow, by the way,” immediately amends Uriel, clearing her throat. “So, what do you think of Astworth?”

“Large,” Ezra says with a sigh. “Inconceivably, ridiculously large. How do you ever find anyone here?”

“We usually just holler across the hallway and hope for the best,” Uriel says, grinning as she shrugs. “Besides, if you think this place is big, you should see Ligur’s.”

Ezra nearly chokes on his sandwich.

The next day passes with little to do, and they spend it mostly napping in bed, the first decent sleep either of them has gotten since being hounded by the press, and the day after brings Christmas Eve — and a rather large dinner. Ezra’s expecting it to be something of a formal thing, but Crowley insists that he should just be comfortable, since it will just be the family. 

Christmas dinner is a quiet affair, but Crowley had warned him of that ahead of time, saying that it would probably be a bit awkward. It seems as though everyone is a bit tense, looking up in Crowley’s direction every few minutes, as everything is served and eaten. Lady Ashara retires upstairs almost immediately once she’s done with her meal, excusing herself. Things relax after she’s left the table, and once they’ve cleared their plates, they sit for a while and talk. Once things wind down, they all look at each other.

“You know,” Uriel says after a beat of awkward silence. “We could do what we did when we were kids. Some good old–fashioned family bonding.”

“Which thing? We did a lot of things as rich brats,” Crowley asks.

Uriel rolls her eyes. “Drag some mattresses into the guest sitting room and sleep there,” she says. “Y’know, family bonding! Get the fire going, stay up late like it’s a sleepover, sleep in a pile.”

Ezra casts a sideways glance to Crowley, who shrugs.

“Why not?” Crowley says, standing up and stretching. “Normal sibling stuff, and whatever,” he adds, looking at Mika and Gabriel. “You two in?” 

“What about me?” Lu says, scoffing.

“Please, you’re in already. You don’t have to be asked.” Crowley turns back to his other two siblings. “So?”

Ezra feels a bit awkward, but it _would_ be fun — Ezra has always been an only child, and has been without a proper family for a long while. Being a part of something so platonic and sibling–like might be nice, for once.

Mika sighs, smiling. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. We’ll bring in mattresses from the downstairs guest rooms.”

Gabriel looks awkward, but nods. With everyone in agreement, they set off. Crowley is barred from helping move furniture and dragging things into the sitting room (_guest_ sitting room, Uriel corrects) and instead directs where to put everything. By the end, they’ve created a spot on the floor that’s twice the size of a king bed with a mountain of pillows and blankets. Crowley and Ezra go back to Crowley’s room to change into pyjamas, and come back to Lucifer stoking the fire in the fireplace while everyone else settles into their spots on the floor for the night. It’s not long before they’re all asleep, like children expecting presents in the morning. 

Ezra has been awake barely five minutes when Michael shifts next to him, stretching, and subsequently seeming to kick Lucifer in the side, judging by the way he curses, which then rouses Gabriel from his slumber. Uriel’s been awake for a few minutes, checking her phone, and Crowley has been drifting back and forth between sleep and wakefulness for the better part of an hour — Ezra knows, because _he’s _been doing the same thing.

“Christ’s _sake,_ no wonder I came out so bloody small,” Lucifer grumbles. “With you _kicking _the nutrients right out of me.”

Ezra furrows his brow, looking confused, which just incites a laugh out of Michael until Lucifer rolls over on top of her, squishing his twin with the bulk of his weight while she does her best to smack him in the face despite her arms being trapped under her.

“I used to be the superior twin, you know,” Mika whines, still struggling to get out from Lucifer’s arm. Like this, it’s easy to see how twin–like they are. Ezra wonders if they were like this as kids, too. “Should have _consumed_ you in the womb and saved myself a lot of trouble!”

Gabriel grumbles, none too happy to be almost completely awake. Ezra doesn’t think he’s ever seen him this early without a coffee. “You’re a lawyer and Lu’s a slut,” he says, his voice muddled with sleep. “You’re still the superior twin.”

Crowley snorts, shifting to wrap an arm around Ezra’s middle and pressing a kiss to the side of his face. Ezra smiles, turning his head to kiss the corner of Crowley’s mouth while Michael laughs and pokes Lucifer, who is trying to come up with a rebuttal, in the ribs.

Gabriel grumbles at all the movement, considering he’s half–sprawled over all of them. “You know I’m right.” 

Lucifer gasps, affronted. “No one asked you, you emotionally stunted little—”

Ezra reaches over and thumps Lucifer on the head with two fingers — not enough to really hurt, because he would never want to hurt someone in his family. This is what gets him off of Michael, rolling to his own pillow. “Be nice to your baby brother,” he scolds, reaching down to pat at Gabriel’s hair, Ezra still drowsy himself.

Gabriel leans into it like a cat, eyes closed, and it requires everything in Ezra _not_ to coo at his boss. Younger brother–in–law now, he surmises. Crowley lets out a wheezing laugh, the kind that he had when he saw something particularly funny on his mobile or if he was drunk. Ezra laughs with him, even despite being tired. He’s never been a late sleeper, but under all the warm blankets and sandwiched between everyone is a perfect place to feel drowsy. Crowley laughs harder, leaning his head against Ezra’s, shifting to press a kiss to Ezra’s temple.

“You’re all _so_ dumb,” Uriel says, and when Ezra looks up, there’s a hand with a phone resting against Crowley’s hip to film them. “This is going to Ligur.”

Michael snorts into laughter, which only sends the rest of them into a fit of giggles.

“Wait,” Ezra says once they’ve all died down again. “It’s Christmas Day.”

Everyone stares at each other, and there’s a brief moment of silence before they all scramble to get up, as if they were all eager children all over again.

“We’re eating breakfast first!” Gabriel says, looking for his missing sock, and it makes all too much sense to Ezra why he’d sleep with socks on.

“I’m not cooking!” Michael says as she hurries out of the room. “Lu’s turn!” 

Lucifer groans in response, dramatically throwing his head backwards. “I _hate_ cooking!” he yells after her with a groan, taking off down the hall after her.

Uriel laughs and steals one of the blankets from the bed, wrapping it around her shoulders like a cape. “There’s a breakfast pizza in the fridge!” she yells after them, rolling her eyes as she checks the time on her phone. “I’m texting Li to come over, he said to let them know when we got up.”

“Tell him to bring alcohol,” Crowley groans. “Bailey’s. Or vodka. Something either for coffee or mimosas, I don’t care which.”

Ezra laughs and steals a blanket off the pile, mostly for Crowley’s sake, really, because he’s always cold no matter how many layers he’s wearing, before he turns to Gabriel.

“I think I’m going for a cup of tea myself,” Ezra says, and takes Crowley’s hand to drag him down the hall with Gabriel following behind.

Breakfast is a busy affair, and Ezra can only imagine what holidays were like with all five siblings under one admittedly massive, sprawling, overwhelmingly complex roof. There’s plenty of harmless bickering, with some references that Ezra doesn’t quite get, but he laughs at them nonetheless.

Lady Ashara comes down just as Gabriel is pulling out the breakfast pizza — something Ezra’s never had, but Lucifer insists are all the rage in the States — greeting them all with a curt good morning before fetching tea for herself. She takes tea like Crowley takes his, Ezra observes, though Crowley’s not allowed to have any caffeine now — no milk, but Ezra’s pretty sure he counts at least four cubes of sugar.

Crowley holds his hand under the table through half the meal, which Ezra admits isn’t the worst, running his thumb in a soothing repetition over Ezra’s wedding band.

Near the end of breakfast, Ligur and Hastur walk into the kitchen, with Dagon and Bee behind them. Michael stands up first to sweep Bee into a hug and a quick kiss, and despite the platform Doc Martens that Bee’s wearing, the twenty–centimetre difference in their heights is still glaringly obvious. Ezra does his best not to laugh at the retching sound that Lucifer and Uriel make.

“Did you bring the alcohol?” Crowley asks.

“No, because you’re not supposed to be having any,” Ligur replies dryly.

Crowley does his best to pout, but none of them takes him seriously.

Uriel clears her plate before sitting herself up on the counter, pulling her legs up to cross. “Whatcha get me?” she asks, beaming at Ligur.

Ligur snorts in reply. “Wouldn’t you like to know, little snoop,” he teases.

“I do not _snoop,_ I _investigate_,” she corrects. “But rude of you to call a proper _honourable miss_ a snoop. I should have you beheaded.”

“Last _I _checked, I have yet to be on the wrong side of a knife. I don’t think an _honourable miss_ would have found herself in _that _position,” Ligur shoots back.

Lady Ashara looks as if she’ll be a little ill, while the rest of the room explodes into laughter. Of all the things Ezra was expecting during Christmas with his in–laws, a reference to a near–death experience that happened only months ago was not one of them — well, at least not _Uriel’s_ near–death experience.

“Oh my _god,”_ Crowley wheezes. “That’s _too _fucking soon, I can’t believe you said that.”

“Children,” Lady Ashara scolds. Crowley doesn’t look very apologetic.

Ligur apologizes quickly, patting her shoulder, and she offers him a small smile before directing everyone to the main sitting room for presents. The tree is beautifully decorated — probably done by a professional, but pretty nonetheless — and Michael gets to work sorting through everyone’s to distribute. 

Everyone begins ripping into their gifts, making comments and thank–yous here and there. One of the first things Ezra unwraps is a box with a _ridiculously _expensive watch inside it. Lucifer snorts at the face he makes. 

“You _must_ keep up with the fashion if you’re in this family,” he teases. “Consider that your official first piece that the papers will ask about.”

“This— This is—”

“Best to just accept it, angel,” Crowley says, setting the socks and bottle of scotch Lucifer had gotten for him aside. Ironic, considering that’s what Crowley had talked Ezra into getting Lucifer as well. It joins two of Crowley’s — apparently, old — shirts that Uriel had given him _back_ as a gift. Crowley and Ezra had gotten her the same shirts he used to have so that Crowley could have his old ones back, but also because Uriel enjoyed the novelty of the occasional matching outfit.

Crowley opens his from Michael next, a series of framed pictures. When Ezra looks over, he realizes what they are — Crowley’s changed birth certificate and the paperwork that makes him _legally_ Anthony Jonah Crowley. Ezra offers him his hand to hold, which he takes readily as he thanks his sister. Then it’s Ezra’s turn next, the present he opens is from Uriel. It turns out to be a red, blue, and gold bowtie. It’s a nice silk material, and Uriel looks up when he pulls it out of the box.

“It’s the family colours!” she explains, beaming at him. “You _must_ have something in the family colours now, Ez, you’re stuck with us for the long haul now!”

Ezra laughs, setting it aside. The next thing he unwraps is a nice suit — he doesn’t want to think about how much it cost — with Michael and Gabriel’s names on it.

“For the big wedding,” Michael explains as she sets her gift from Crowley and Ezra aside — hand–carved hair sticks from an artisan, Crowley’s idea. Apparently, she is notoriously hard to shop for. “Gabriel helped pick it out, but we’ll have to get it steamed and fitted.”

“It’s wonderful,” Ezra replies. 

Dagon and Ligur and Hastur open their gifts from Ezra and Crowley, as Ezra sets the suit aside, opting to watch everyone else. 

“We weren’t sure what to get you,” Ezra says as they take the wrapping paper off. “So it’s just some pictures that Michael helped me find from when you all were in uni made it into a bit of a memory book. Greatest hits, and whatnot, I suppose.”

Crowley leans back against the cushions on the couch, reaching for Ezra’s hand.

Hastur laughs as he flips through the book. “My hair was awful,” he says.

“Constant helmet hair does that to a person,” Crowley fires back.

“Looking through those came with a helluva lot of nostalgia.” Dagon laughs, flipping through her own. “We were all so _young_,” she says. “And now look at us.”

“Speak for yourself, I’m younger than my _husband. _‘S a nice reminder of my youth,” Crowley says.

Ezra rolls his eyes, squeezing Crowley’s hand. He thinks they’re done, but then Gabriel stands up and drags a bag from behind the tree and starts to pass out packages to everyone — hand–wrapped with the same roll of wrapping paper, if Ezra has to guess based on the imperfect job — until everyone has one in their hands. Somewhere behind Ezra and Crowley, sitting on the velvet sofa, Dagon and Ligur high–five.

“Gabriel, have I mentioned you are my _favourite_ Christchurch recently?” Dagon jokes as she opens her present. “Because you’re definitely my favourite Christchurch.”

“I take offence to that,” Crowley fires back, looking up when Gabriel hands him one. “Gabriel, is— is this what I think it is?”

Ezra smiles, shaking his head fondly, when he is then handed one _himself._

“That depends,” Gabriel says, his eyes glued to the floor. “I don’t know what you think it is.”

Crowley snorts and begins to open his, and Ezra follows suit, carefully removing the tape from the paper. He wasn’t expecting to get anything, really, although he and Crowley had gotten something for Gabriel — Wellington boots, which Ezra didn’t really understand the purpose of — but he wasn’t expecting anything _back_. Ezra rips the paper away anyway, revealing a _hand–knitted_ jumper, soft and cream–coloured with a light blue _E_ on the front and with no tags visible anywhere.

“Gabriel, did you _make_ this?” Ezra asks, flicking his head in Gabriel’s direction as his eyes widen.

“We get a new one every year,” Mika says as she puts on her own jumper, a golden _M_ on its front to match the theme of the rest. “He’s been doing it since he was sixteen.”

“I, um— well, I’m working on another one for you,” Gabriel says like he’s tripping over his tongue, showing Ezra a completely new side to his boss. “In the family colours. I wanted you to have a sweater like everyone else.” 

“I love it,” says Ezra. “They’re like the sweaters in Harry Potter, yes?”

“Wait, you know about it?” Gabriel asks, his face lighting up. 

“Of course, I read them when I was in uni,” Ezra replies, looking up. “A shame about the author, though. I always wanted to have a handmade sweater, though. Thank you, Gabriel.”

Crowley has finished opening his in the meantime, black with a red _AC_ on the front, and Crowley lets out an absent laugh. “It’s… It’s the right initials.” 

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted an A or a C,” Gabriel says. “You go by both. But, uh, you haven’t… when you left you took the other one with you.” 

“I still have it,” Crowley says. “I just… I don’t wear it. Wrong initial. Didn’t want to tip anyone off. The papers said it was what I was last seen in.” Gabriel nods.

Crowley stands up, hesitating awkwardly for a moment before Gabriel takes a step forward to hug him. Ezra tries not to coo a little at the scene. It’s nice to see everyone getting along. 

Everyone stays for the day for lunch and dinner, which are much more enjoyable than the dinner the night before. Even Lady Ashara has a nice time, judging by her laughter and smiling. Once the guests leave, Ezra, Crowley, and his siblings all stay up a while longer for chitchat and just to simply spend some more time with each other. It’s unanimously decided that they’re all sleeping downstairs again at some point once the hour grows later.

Ezra almost doesn’t notice Crowley’s mother leave, but realizes she hadn’t opened any of her own gifts that morning. He hurries to fetch he and Crowley’s present — not that his husband knows about it, and then makes his way back across the sitting room, through the hall, just in time to catch her.

“Lady Ashara?” Ezra says quickly and hesitantly, thankful that everyone has already retired to the other room to get ready for bed in the amalgamation of mattresses, pillows, and blankets.

Lady Ashara’s on her way upstairs, and so Ezra knows it’s now or never. “Just Ash, dear,” she says. “What is it?”

Ezra swallows, biting at his lip. He’s not been this nervous for a while, not after settling in with all of Crowley’s siblings. Ashara is more of an uncharted territory. Ezra pulls out the wrapped book from his bag. “This is for you,” he says.

“Oh, Ezra, you didn’t—”

“Just… open it, please,” Ezra says. “And— well, if you’d like to listen?”

Lady Ashara looks up and nods as she begins to undo the wrapping paper.

“I know Crowley’s a bit mad at you,” he continues, wishing he could shake off the uneasiness the house still gives him. “And I know _you_ know that it’s reasonable. He’s coming around, but this was my idea. He didn’t know what to get you, but I didn’t tell him about this.”

As Ezra finishes speaking, Lady Ashara lets the wrapping paper fall to the floor, running her hand over the cover of the photo album and taking a breath before she flips it open. Ezra knows what the first one would be, a picture he’d taken of Crowley driving the Bentley, mid–laugh with the sun backlighting him, and Lady Ashara lets out a shuddering breath as she looks at it.

“They’re all of him since we’ve been together,” Ezra explains. “I know you wouldn’t have any pictures of him after his twenty–third birthday, so Ana helped me gather some from between then and the time I met him. Ten years of the time that you never had. I got the idea when Michael and I made the photo books for his friends.”

She sniffles, flipping the page and raising her hand to cover her mouth. “Oh, Ezra…”

“I— Well, I’ve not had my parents for twenty years,” he says quickly. “And I know you at least _tried_, with all of your children. My parents never did. I just thought that you might like some more recent pictures of him.”

Lady Ashara continues to flip through a few more pages without saying a word, tears steadily falling down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Ezra says, his eyes widening, thinking he must have upset her. “I know this was—”

Lady Ashara closes the book and surges forward to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “It’s perfect, Ezra,” she whispers. “Thank you so much.”

Ezra lets himself hug her back, because she seems like she needs it — and she does give exceptionally good hugs, the kind that he expects mothers to give. The kind he hasn't ever really gotten.

“You’re welcome,” he says into her shoulder, and they stay like that a moment until Ashara pulls away. “We, um. We should both get some sleep.”

She smiles softly, reaching out to pat his cheek. “Of course, dear,” she says. “Good night. Get some rest.”

“You too, Lady Ash,” he says, and he turns as she goes up the stairs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to know _why_ Crowley calls the charges a cat and not a leopard, [here’s](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/597658872404115486/783286096879419412/christchurch_full_achievement.png) what the coat of arms actually look like.


	36. Buck Bean

The day after Christmas, Crowley asks if they can go out. Mika and Lu both look like they’re going to complain, but Uriel is too quick to chime in that it’s a good idea — and, well, no one’s ever been able to tell _her_ no.

Mika catches him by the crook of his arm as everyone excitedly rushes out the door, pulling him to the side without anyone noticing. “Hey,” she says with a frown. “You look like you’re in pain. Are you well?”

“‘M _fine,_ Mye,” Crowley sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose before adjusting his glasses. “Just tired. Lots of excitement over the past few days. Don’t worry, I’d let you know if something was particularly bad.”

He’s not exactly feeling _well_, per se, not since before Christmas, with the shortness of breath and the occasional tightness in his chest. It’s probably nothing, the doctors _did say_ that this could be a side effect of the ablation, and he remembers all too well feeling like this when he was seventeen, so he elects to ignore it for the most part. He’s sure it’ll pass, it always does, and it’s not like anyone can force him to go to the stables in a wheelchair. No way.

Mika raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms as she glares at him.

“I promise, if I feel worse, I’ll let you know,” Crowley says, feeling a little guilty for worrying her, considering everything else she has to worry about. The stress can’t be good for her. 

The excuse seems to placate her for now, but Mika still gives him a look that quite clearly tells Crowley that they’ll have a much longer discussion about this later. Well, _there’s_ a problem for future Crowley.

They all stand by the front door, bundled up against the slight winter chill as they prepare to trek out into the snow, until they realise they probably won’t all fit into Mika’s Porsche, so they decide that it’s better if they take two cars instead. Of course, Crowley doesn’t leave room for an argument when he volunteers to drive the second car, and everyone resignedly allows it just this once.

The Bentley seems to purr as Crowley starts her engine, running his hands over the steering wheel with a fond smile.

“So,” Ezra says as he rubs his hands together to keep them warm even in the mittens. “You have horses?”

Uriel nods from her spot in the back seat, leaning forward. “A lot, actually,” she answers. “And I’m sure he never told you, but Anthony was qualified for the Olympics at some point!” 

“Was he now?” Ezra says, raising an eyebrow.

“Pfft. So was Mye,” Crowley shoots back with a grin. “It was a long time ago, anyway. Too young to compete then, and I'm out of practice now.” 

“I’ve not so much as been on a horse,” mumbles Ezra.

This was the wrong thing to say, judging by the way Uriel’s face lights up not unlike the Christmas tree back at the manor.

“We can give you a lesson!” Uriel says quickly. “Mika teaches sometimes between cases, and I think I’m probably a decent teacher, and _Anthony_ will be there to cheer you on. It’ll be fun!”

Crowley gives Ezra a sideways glance, raising an eyebrow when Ezra turns to tell Uriel he’d rather not. He knows the look that’s coming without even glancing back in the rearview mirror, and judging by the slump in Ezra’s shoulders, it worked, just as well as it’s worked on any of their siblings every time.

“I… suppose it couldn’t hurt,” he says hesitantly, suddenly acutely aware of what he’s agreed to, if Crowley goes by the way he chews at his lower lip. “Just so long as you put me on one that won’t be too… temperamental. I don’t fancy landing myself in A&E. We’ve spent too much time there this year.”

Crowley snorts, rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses. As if _Ezra _had any room to talk on hospital stays. He’d have to tease his husband about it later.

“I promise that I will not let Mika put you on one of the mares,” Uriel says, raising her right hand like she’s taking an oath in one of Mika’s cases.

The reference soars over Ezra’s head, but Crowley laughs. “Mine was never that bad,” says Crowley, as he takes a left turn. “But I’ve been informed that she’s far into retirement.”

“Sirius has entered into her lazy years,” Uriel agrees. “She’s still sweet, though! The stablehands love her.”

Ezra decides not to comment on the stablehands comment, because it would probably just make his head hurt.

The rest of the short drive is quiet, and they pull up outside an impressive–looking building made from dark wood with navy shingles. It’s an impressive building, with a paddock beginning just to the right of it, and when Ezra gets out of the car he can see that it’s on an expansive piece of land.

“How do they keep it trimmed?” he asks, a bit distantly. Crowley snorts.

“The horses do most of the work, but there’s a groundskeeping staff too,” he replies. “Come on, let’s head inside. Everyone else beat us here.”

Ezra looks up to see Lucifer, Gabriel, and Michael lingering at the entrance to the barn (Stable? Ezra isn’t sure the proper terminology for this, other than _big_ and _expensive–looking)_. 

“Took you long enough,” Lucifer teases as they approach, putting his mobile away. “I’m going to go off and find a cat to pet, but you lot enjoy yourselves.” 

Mika leads them down the hall, and Crowley lags a bit behind her, saying nothing. Uriel, Gabriel, and Lucifer have all gone to do their own things, leaving just Crowley and Ezra to follow to see _her_.

Mika stops in front of a stall. “Go on then,” she says, nudging him on. “She won’t bite. _Especially_ not you.”

Crowley squeezes Ezra’s hand one last time before taking a few steps forward as Ezra nods. Crowley makes little clucking noises with his tongue, and the straw rustles as a red–brown horse pokes her head out over the top of the gate, sniffing the air in Crowley’s direction.

“Hey, old lady,” Crowley says quietly, tentatively holding his hand out — almost afraid of touching her, irrationally thinking the illusion might shatter the moment he makes contact. Like she’ll know that he left her behind for a decade. “Long time no see, Siri.”

She eagerly pushes her nose into his hand, snorting and rubbing her face against him as if demanding more attention. It’s as if he’d never left, the way she nudges at him and demands _real_ attention. He’s sure that if he was in the stall with her, she’d be poking around his pockets for treats. Crowley manages a watery laugh before stepping forward, bringing his other hand up to hold her head and scratch behind her ears as he rests his forehead against hers, slumping his shoulders and stubbornly trying to ignore the tears flowing down his cheeks.

“Seems like she missed you,” Mika says, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall.

Crowley hears Ezra coo, and when he looks up, Ezra has a soft look on his face. He nods and wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater, sniffling. He’s hoping they won’t hold it over his head, not that Ezra ever would. “Yep,” he says. “And you’d better not tell Lu about this.”

Mika nods back, and Ezra walks to stand next to Crowley, offering his hand for him to hold — Crowley takes it readily, squeezing slightly.

Ezra eyes Sirius warily, but Crowley smiles. “You can pet her, you know. Mika was right — she’s not a biter,” he tells Ezra.

“Oh, I— well—” Ezra says, scrambling for an excuse as Crowley takes Ezra’s hand and places it gently on the mare’s nose.

She nudges against Ezra’s palm, blowing a huff of warm air out at him. Crowley chuckles, watching the expression on Ezra’s face change from vaguely terrified to accepting to fond in a few seconds. “Oh. Well, I— hello, miss,” says Ezra, still hesitating.

“She’s a good mare,” Crowley states matter–of–factly. “Very reliable. And well–tempered to boot.”

“She’s very pretty,” Ezra adds.

Crowley strokes her forehead, smiling. “That too.” 

“You’re both redheads,” Ezra jokes, reaching up to scritch behind her ear. Sirius shakes her head, pushing her nose into Ezra’s chest, and Ezra laughs giddily, making Crowley’s heart melt a bit. “And both enjoy attention, it seems.”

“I resent that,” Crowley laughs, leaning closer to press a kiss to Ezra’s temple. It’s nice, that he’s started to connect both parts of his life — the old part, the part he’d resented for a long time (until now, at least), and the newer section that’s made him extremely happy.

After a few minutes of Crowley being able to shower love on his old mare, Mika asks if they’re ready to get Ezra’s lesson on. Crowley nods, promising Siri that he’d be back, before following behind Mika and Ezra. He’s not exactly paying attention to where he’s going when he runs into his husband’s back.

_“Ow,_ why’d you—” Crowley looks up, only to see his baby sister — who, despite being a teenager, he will still refer to as a baby because it feels like just yesterday she was a toddler — riding a horse that is, for lack of a better term, _monstrously_ huge.

“What the _hell _have you been feeding him_?”_ Crowley asks, letting his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose as he ogles at the draught. “And you’d better not be putting Ezra on him. I don’t want his _single _experience to be a bad one.” 

“Love! And this is Gander!” she says, as if he’s some cute pony she’s entered into a hunter class with. “He’s a big boy.”

Crowley blinks at his sister incredulously. “Obviously,” he says dryly when he recovers himself, pushing his glasses back up. “So who _are_ you all putting Ezra on then?”

“Soul,” Gabriel says, coming up from the other end of the barn leading a mostly–black horse by the bridle, already tacked up and ready to go. “He’s beginner–friendly. Mika and Uriel trained him themselves.” His brother walks the horse past the three of them and into the arena, holding him expectantly. “Are you coming in?”

“Er— right, right, of course,” Ezra says quickly, leaning over to press a quick kiss to Crowley’s cheek before entering the arena with Michael following behind him, grabbing a spare helmet off one of the fence posts that enclose the arena.

Crowley moves to the fencing, leaning his arms against it to rest the back of his head atop them. Between Gabriel and Uriel, Ezra manages to mount the Thoroughbred without too much fuss. It takes a bit more coaching from Michael to get Ezra even _close _to comfortable, and Gabriel has to lead him around the arena a few times before he’s comfortable doing anything himself.

Crowley occasionally offers pointers from the sidelines, but Michael, Uriel, and Gabriel are surprisingly good teachers. Uriel’s gelding is seemingly bombproof as he and Uriel walk beside Ezra and Soul, and she occasionally chats and corrects something about Ezra’s posture or foot position. Crowley’s pretty sure he hears _heels down_ about ten times in a two–minute period, and he laughs every time.

Lu has taken a seat on a bale of hay, one of the barn cats curled up in his lap and purring happily as she rubs against his hands. Out of all of them, Lu was the only one who _didn’t_ take up equestrianism and was more content being a spectator at competitions.

“For it being his first time up there, he’s not bad,” Lucifer notes idly. “Maybe you can help him along, some time.”

“I’m impressed, honestly,” Crowley muses, watching his husband break Soul into a trot and straying a few steps ahead of Uriel. “Think he might have more potential than you did and he’s starting _much _later in the game.”

Lucifer snorts, rolling his eyes. _“I_ remember you being frightened of horses as a small child,” Lucifer teases. _“And then_ you went to see _one _of Michael’s shows, and then Mother took you to an auction with her, and you saw Sirius and just _had_ to have a horse, and then you started competing.”

Crowley snorts. “We all had respectable hobbies,” he says, motioning for Lu to move a bit so he can sit. “Most of us had _this._ You just so happened to have fencing, for a while.” 

“It didn’t last long,” Lucifer fires back, rolling his eyes. “Far too much running around. Admittedly, I _did _enjoy the stabbing aspect of it.” 

“You would,” Crowley says, and his attention goes back to Ezra. He does look like a natural up there, and he seems to have gotten the hang of keeping his heels down and back straight. Ezra’s even keeping Soul at a steady trot now, pacing Uriel around the arena while Mika and Gabriel watch intently. 

“Crowley! I think I’m actually not too rubbish at this!” Ezra says with a laugh as he passes Crowley, looking extremely proud of himself. It’s entirely too adorable, really.

“You look great, angel!” Crowley calls back, leaning a little heavier on the post. The cold must be getting to him, and just standing doesn’t help. It would be better if he was doing something, or—

Well, there’s an idea.

He turns and goes back down the barn aisle, ignoring Lucifer asking where he’s going. He follows the familiar path back to Sirius’s stall, where she’s munching on her grain again. She looks up when he opens the stall door, but doesn’t move when it stays ajar.

“What do you say, huh?” he asks, “Up for something light?”

She snorts at him and noses at his chest, which he takes as a yes. She might be retired, but a good bit of exercise would do her fine. It’s not as though Crowley’s all that heavy, and it’s not like they’d be doing anything too rigorous. So he comes to her side and — with a bit more effort and exertion than he’d admit to — pulls himself up onto her back.

With a little cluck of his tongue, she’s heading out of the stall, following his direction down the aisle and back towards the indoor arena. He’d expected her to be a little rusty, to question some of his cues, but every time he presses with a leg or gives a bit of pressure on her mane, she follows without question. They’ve always been a good team.

Lucifer is not happy when he sees the two of them traipsing up and standing by the gate as Crowley leans over and unlatches it.

“Absolutely not,” he says, standing up. He’s still holding the barn cat. “You’re supposed to be _resting_.” 

“Nothing quicker than a trot,” Crowley replies, directing Sirius into the arena. “Nothing too exerting, _Sammy_.”

Lucifer glares daggers at him — even with his back turned, he can tell — but he enters the ring anyway, as Michael turns to face him and crosses her arms.

“Absolutely not,” she says, and _God,_ Crowley hates when she and Lucifer do the exact same thing like this, even if they don’t mean it. “Anthony, this is the opposite of taking it easy.”

“I’m _fine,_” he repeats, speeding Sirius’s walk a bit as he goes along the railing. It’s still a walk, but it’s not the meandering pace she was at before. “Absolutely peachy, actually.”

“That’s Sirius, not Peach,” Gabriel replies flatly, and Crowley snorts at the dry delivery of the joke, patting Sirius’s neck. “And Mika’s right, if you fall—”

“As if she’d ever throw me,” Crowley fires back. “Nah, ‘m fine. I’ll be plenty careful.”

Ezra rides up next to him then, slowing Soul to a walk. He looks like a natural, would look like a _competitor _if he was in the proper clothes. It’s both funny to think about as well as endearing.

“We should do this more often!” Ezra says with a smile.

Crowley laughs, reaching out to rest a hand on Ezra’s arm, and Ezra gives him the same look he does when he takes his hand off the Bentley’s wheel, a look to say _both–hands–on–the–horse_, but Crowley’s good at this. He’d been taught by the best teachers in the nation as a child, and he hasn’t forgotten those lessons yet.

“Maybe, yeah,” Crowley replies.

Uriel passes them at a canter on her mountain of a horse, laughing with her hands in the air. Both Mika and Gabe yell for her to slow down, which she does only marginally.

“New family bonding activity!” she yells at them, slowing Gander to a walk as she turns around in her saddle. This time it’s Crowley’s turn to be worried, but Uriel sees the look on his face. “Don’t worry, I’ve done this a million times!”

“And every time we yell at you not to do it because it’s not safe,” Gabriel adds. “...Could be fun, though. Little family trail rides around the estate.”

Lucifer groans dramatically. “Do you know the last time I was on a horse? It’s been years.”

“One year,” Mika corrects. “Last you came home before all this I made you come with me on a trail ride,” she adds, as Lucifer glares at her from across the arena. “Besides, you enjoyed yourself. And between all of us, I’m sure we can teach Ezra how to get pretty good.”

“He learns fast!” Uriel adds, spinning back around to guide Gander to walk next to Ezra and Crowley. “I’m sure he could keep up.”

“Maybe when the weather warms up,” Crowley concedes, because this isn’t a fight he can win. He knows that. “I think it sounds like fun, yeah? What do you think, love?”

Ezra smiles at him. “I think I would be alright with that.” 


	37. Hellebore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! :>

Today is perfect. Nested under the covers, with Ezra laying next to him, framed by the soft light entering through the window, Crowley couldn’t ask for anything more.

Crowley watches as Ezra starts to stir, smiling at Crowley as he slowly blinks his cornflower blue eyes open.

“Good morning, dear,” Ezra says, suppressing a yawn as he shifts closer to Crowley.

“Morning, angel,” says Crowley, smiling back as he feels his heart flutter in his chest. It’s been five years, but seeing Ezra wake up next to him still feels like the first time every time. “Did you sleep well?”

“After two days of sleeping on the floor next to everyone? Much, _much_ better,” replies Ezra, lazily stretching out his arms and resting a hand on Crowley. “Have you been awake long?”

“Not really,” Crowley says, lying through his teeth. “Just woke up, enjoying the view until the view himself woke up.”

Ezra clucks his tongue, shaking his head with a fond smile as he sits up. “Oh, you incurable flirt.”

“Not flirting, just telling the truth,” says Crowley as he follows Ezra with his eyes. “Where are you going?”

“Work,” replies Ezra rather matter–of–factly. “It’s no longer a holiday, Crowley.”

“Yes, it is,” Crowley says, raising an eyebrow. “Your _boss _is sleeping in three doors away from us, of course it’s a work holiday.”

“You said it yourself, he’s the boss,” retorts Ezra, as he crosses his arms over his chest with a sigh. _“He_ can sleep in, _I_ can’t.”

“Hey, _I_ technically own shares at my family’s company, I’m also your boss,” Crowley replies as he pushes himself up, taking in a shuddering breath and closing his eyes at the sudden feeling of lightheadedness.

“Crowley?” Ezra asks, worry evident in his voice.

“‘S nothing, just stood up too fast,” says Crowley, breathing out slowly through his mouth as he lays back down. “Come back to bed, angel.”

“Very well,” Ezra sighs, sitting back down on the bed right next to Crowley. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Crowley hums, wrapping the covers over himself. “Yeah. Let’s go back to sleep. You’re warm, stay next to me.”

Ezra smiles at him, laying back down to oblige. “Did you mean that?” he asks.

“What, that I own shares?” says Crowley, yawning widely as he slithers himself into Ezra’s arms. “Yeah, apparently father dearest never removed me from his will, and since he’d died before _I_ could be legally declared dead…”

“That means you’re my boss,” Ezra finishes for him, tugging Crowley closer and placing his chin on top of Crowley’s head. “Feels weird, being married to your boss.”

“Well, better get used to it because you’re going to be stuck with me for a long time,” Crowley says, chuckling. “D’you want to go to the greenhouse later, if it’s not too chilly?”

Ezra hums, running his hand over Crowley’s hair. “Anything you want, dear. I do want to see your famous heirloom roses.”

“If no one messed with them yet,” mutters Crowley, as he gives in to the exhaustion that never seems to leave him nowadays.

Crowley had slept through lunch, which wasn’t really odd as he always sleeps in during wintertime, and yet also disappointing when taken into account the fact that he hasn’t tasted Lu’s cooking for close to ten years now. Still though, it does feel rather nice to sleep on his own soft bed and not on some worn, creaky hospital–issue mattress. The fact that he wakes up to Ezra watching him with a fond expression helps, too.

“Bedhead?” Crowley asks, blinking his eyes drowsily.

“Doesn’t make you any less cute, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ezra replies with a snort, his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

Crowley grunt as he pushes himself up into a sitting position, exhaling slowly to calm his racing heart as he shakes his head. “You know, that’s why I love you,” he says. “Let’s go to the greenhouse?”

“Are you sure? You haven’t had lunch yet,” says Ezra, furrowing his eyebrows as he stares at Crowley. “And you’re looking a little pale, dear. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I always look pale, angel,” Crowley replies, shrugging. “Besides, it’s probably not that cold in the greenhouse right now. It’s stopped snowing, hasn’t it?”

“It has,” affirms Ezra, helping Crowley to stand. “But you’ll have to layer up, it’s still quite chilly out there.”

“Yeah, I know,” Crowley replies, scowling even though he’s already starting to shiver at how cold it is. “Hand me the jumper Gabe knit, will you? He’s going to be disappointed if he doesn’t see me wearing it.”

Ezra obliges, pressing the soft woollen jumper into Crowley’s hand. “Your brother keeps surprising me with his hidden depths, I see.”

“Oh, Gabbers has always been a sweet kid,” Crowley says, shrugging off his pyjama top, and then immediately realises Gabe’s employees probably wouldn’t buy what he’d just said. “Hopefully, it’s still not too late to undo Father’s damage. What?” he asks, as he notices Ezra staring at him.

“It’s just…” says Ezra, chewing at his bottom lip as he hesitates. “They never bother you? The scars, I mean.”

“You’ve seen me naked dozens of times, Ezra, you know I’m completely used to them,” Crowley says, pausing in the middle of dressing himself.

“But the new ones, surely?”

“Well, they do, obviously, but I’ll get used to them, too. Eventually. Look,” he sighs, reaching over to tug Ezra’s hand and place it over the gnarly skin at the centre of his chest. “Feel that? I’m still here. Not leaving.”

“Feels fast,” says Ezra, his eyebrows still furrowed.

“It’s always fast, angel,” Crowley replies, offering Ezra a small smile before placing a kiss on Ezra’s knuckle. “Don’t worry about it. Greenhouse?”

“You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?” Ezra replies, sighing a long–suffering sigh.

“You know I’m not,” says Crowley, grinning back cheekily.

Mum hasn’t changed anything much in his garden. Well, hers still, really. Technically. The heirloom roses are dormant right now, as he’d expected them to, to Ezra’s probable disappointment, but Crowley’s satisfied that at least they look healthy. They’ll come back to life in the spring again, anyway, as they’re always wont to do. At least the camellia bushes are in full bloom, as are the snowdrops and hellebores and pansies, making the greenhouse appear still so vibrant even in the dead of winter. Crowley smiles, realising that someone’s been taking care of all of them. Maybe it’s Mum. This was her Eden after all, the only place she never let anyone but Crowley and his siblings to enter, that is, up until Crowley took over as an ill, housebound teenager.

Crowley grabs the garden shears by the door, trimming off a camellia blossom by the stem and turning around just as Ezra enters the greenhouse after him, looking around in wonder and amazement.

“Here you go, angel,” Crowley says, grinning as he tucks the flower behind Ezra’s ear. “A sweet scent for the sweet. Or would you rather a pansy?”

Ezra rolls his eyes fondly, as he shrugs off his outermost jacket. “Thank you, dear. You should’ve told me, I could’ve brought a book to press this into. Rather warm in here, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” asks Crowley, who really couldn’t tell. “And it’s not like I have to tell you to bring a book, you always have one on you wherever you go, anyway.”

“That’s true,” concedes Ezra, as he resumes looking around the greenhouse. “Everything as you remember, then?”

“Well, mostly,” Crowley replies, coming to rest on the garden chair and have a chance to catch his breath. “I don’t remember those begonias being here before, though,” he adds, inclining his head in the direction of the begonias in the corner.

Ezra joins him, sitting on the chair across from Crowley as he takes a thermos out from inside his coat pocket. Oh, of course.

“Do you want some?” asks Ezra as he unscrews the top of the thermos and pours himself some soup on the cup. “I scrounged up some clam chowder from the kitchen before we went here.”

“So _that’s_ why you took a detour while I was getting dressed. Lu’s cooking?” Crowley says, raising an eyebrow, and as Ezra nods while sipping the soup, he adds “Not really hungry yet, though. Let’s just save it for the fireworks later.”

“You haven’t had anything since yesterday, Anthony,” points out Ezra, fixing Crowley a hard stare.

_“Fine,”_ Crowley says, sighing as he takes the cup Ezra is pushing towards him, swallowing back the urge to throw it all up.

Ezra smiles at him, seemingly not noticing. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No,” replies Crowley, lying through his teeth as he rests his head against the back of the chair to shake off the dizziness. “Shall we go back then?”

“So soon?” Ezra asks, staring at Crowley with concern in his eyes. “Crowley dear, are you sure you’re alright?”

Crowley grimaces, sitting up straight as he tries to give Ezra a reassuring smile. “Perfectly fine,” he replies. “Think the cold’s just getting to me.”

_“I_ think you might be due for another doctor’s appointment,” says Ezra dryly. “Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“As you wish, angel,” Crowley obliges, not wishing to argue with his husband any further. Besides, Ezra’s right, anyway.

“Let’s go back inside the house, then?” asks Ezra, reaching over to fix Crowley’s scarf.

Crowley nods, and together they walk hand–in–hand back to the house.

Crowley is utterly winded by the time he and Ezra walk back to the house, but it’s fine, the estate’s always felt too big for him anyway. They enter through the south wing, and Crowley breaks into a grin as he spots a familiar black–and–white creature stalking the halls, wearing his own jumper that Crowley assumes must’ve been knit by Gabriel as well.

Crowley lets Dog approach, rubbing against his trouser leg, before Crowley crouches down and lets Dog sniff at his fingers, scratching under his chin as Ezra watches with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

“Is that… a cat?” Ezra asks, staring as Crowley plops down on the floor to let Dog sit on his lap.

Crowley looks up, feeling all warm and fuzzy inside as Dog purrs loudly against his stomach. “No,” he says dryly. “His name is Dog.”

“I see…” says Ezra, sighing with an exasperated expression on his face.

“Oh, I haven’t shown you the library yet,” Crowley suddenly exclaims, sitting up straight from where he’d already buried his face into Dog’s fur. “It’s in the south wing as well, I’ll show you the way.”

“Are you going to tell me how big your library is first?” asks Ezra, with a look in his eyes that tells Crowley his husband probably already has an inkling on the answer.

“Nope,” Crowley replies, popping the _p _and grunting as he carries Dog against his shoulder. “Besides, I’m always full of surprises.”

“No more bad ones, surely,” says Ezra, as he watches Crowley struggle with carrying Dog in his arms. “Are you sure you’ll be alright with carrying him, dear?”

“Absolutely,” Crowley replies, spitting out fur as Dog paws at his mouth.

“Astworth library, here at your disposal, Mr Fell,” Crowley declares with a cheeky grin as he pushes the double doors open. Dog follows at his heel, content to stay close while not being carried. Crowley’s a bit glad for that, at least — even though he’s older, he’s still quite heavy.

Ezra smiles at Crowley in return, affectionately elbowing Crowley in the ribs (which didn’t really help Crowley to catch his breath, but it’s fine) before he enters the library, looking very much like a child let loose in a sweets shop as he stares at the high shelves.

“How is the place so big?” Ezra asks, his eyes as big as saucers. “Crowley, your library is bigger than most libraries I’ve set foot in!”

“I take offence to that ‘most’ part,” says Crowley, chuckling breathlessly as Ezra scowls at him. “And not technically _mine,_ it’s Lu’s. But I’m glad you liked it.”

Ezra looks back at Crowley, batting his eyelashes expectantly. _“Like_ it? Crowley dearest, this should’ve been the first place you showed me when we arrived!”

“Sorry, angel, got lost in the shuffle,” says Crowley, still smiling as he affectionately shakes his head. “You can go look around the place, you know. Pick any book you like. Consider it one last holiday gift for this year.”

“Thank you, Anthony,” Ezra says, standing on his tiptoes to place a kiss on Crowley’s cheeks before disappearing between the shelves.

Crowley places a hand on the spot Ezra had just kissed, smiling as he watches his husband explore the room before he himself all but slithers over to the nearest sofa with Dog to rest his weary bones. He’s not been this tired since before his ablation, so maybe Ezra is right — a doctor’s appointment to ring in the new year might be a good idea. He’d hate to ring it in with an actual hospital stay, after all.

Ezra emerges from between the stacks rather soon, with a book tucked under his arm as he sits next to Crowley and leans his back against the sofa’s armrest. Carefully flipping the hardcover open.

Crowley shifts himself on the sofa, laying his head on his husband’s lap as he lifts Dog up to let him curl up on his stomach. “Whatcha got, angel?” he asks, stroking his hand over Dog’s head as Dog rumbles with purrs that shake through Crowley’s body. “Looks like a first edition to me.”

“Oh, is it? Though I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised if it was. It’s _Little Women,_ if you must know,” replies Ezra, smiling as he runs a hand through Crowley’s hair that makes Crowley feel he would _also _definitely be purring right now if he could. “I was planning on reading it aloud, if you’d like?”

Crowley hums, nodding slowly before he has to push back the wave of nausea that washes over him. “Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes, “I’d like that.”

“Alright,” says Ezra, still stroking Crowley’s hair as he clears his throat before he begins.

_“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug._

Lulled by the clear, dulcet tones of his husband’s voice and the warmth of a cat gently purring against his lap, Crowley soon drifts off.

Crowley wakes up to a tap on his shoulder, his heart pounding in his chest as he gasps for air. Dog looks up at him from his spot curled up on Crowley’s stomach, letting out a concerned chirp as Crowley himself looks up and sees Ezra, looking concerned as he keeps a tight grasp on Crowley’s shoulder to help keep him steady.

“Anthony, darling?” Ezra asks, helping Crowley to sit up.

“‘S nothing,” he replies, keeping the wheeze out of his voice and doing his best to even out his breathing as he manages to flash his husband a small smile. “Dog’s just a little heavy.”

Ezra doesn’t look convinced, and neither does Crowley _feel_ convinced, but Ezra rubs a hand over Crowley’s back in an attempt to soothe him regardless.

It takes him a moment, but Crowley gets a handle on his bearings eventually. “‘M fine now, see? Just took a tick.” 

“Doctor’s appointment tomorrow, first thing in the morning,” Ezra tells him firmly, still keeping his hold on Crowley.

Crowley nods, too out of breath and energy to argue a point. “How long was I out?” he asks, still wheezing as he rubs at his eyes.

“Just in time for dinner, I think.”

“We should go then,” Crowley says, nearly stumbling as he stands from the sofa. “Before they start wondering where we went.”

Crowley and Ezra bump into Lucifer as they make their way to the dining room, and Crowley’s older brother stares at him from top to bottom before he scoffs.

“You look like shit,” Lucifer declares. “Where have you been all day long?”

“I _feel_ like shit, but I still look better than you,” Crowley retorts, glaring at his brother. “I was just taking Ezra on a tour of the library, don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure that’s the only thing you’ve been doing?” asks Lucifer, meeting Crowley’s eye with a suggestive waggle of the eyebrows. “Which library, then?”

“Wh—” squeaks Ezra, standing beside Crowley and startling him.

“He means there are two libraries, angel,” Crowley says, squeezing Ezra’s hand as he glares harder at Lucifer. “One of which he knows full well no one’s allowed to enter into apart from Mum. What’s for dinner?”

“Oh, just some prime wagyu cuts,” replies Lucifer nonchalantly. “Mum wants to have some steak tonight. And you missed my ragù this afternoon.”

Crowley sighs breathlessly, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry, overslept.”

“Is he alright?” Lucifer asks, turning to Ezra instead.

“I’m _fine,_ Lu,” says Crowley, clicking his tongue before wincing at the sudden sharp pain between his ribs. “It’s just a bit too cold today. Don’t hassle Ezra about it.”

Lucifer hums thoughtfully, and for a split second Crowley thinks the jig is definitely up, but then his brother shrugs instead, patting Crowley on the back before making his way towards the kitchen.

Dinner passes him by in a blur, and Crowley still couldn’t stomach anything more than a few bites, no matter how good Lu’s cooking smells like. It’s fine, everyone’s already too used to him eating so little that no one raises a fuss.

He is so out of it that he doesn’t even realise that Ezra’s been trying to catch his attention until his husband gently places his hand over the hand that Crowley’s using to grip the knife, prompting him to drop it.

“What—” Crowley says, his nerves frazzled like a startled cat as he tries to catch his breath. “Sorry, d’you say something, angel?”

“Your mother was asking how long we’re planning on staying here,” Ezra replies, staring at Crowley with concern in his eyes. “Are you sure you’re alright, dear?”

“Yeah, just… zoned out for a bit,” says Crowley, pinching at the bridge of his nose as he exhales shakily. “Maybe a few more weeks? Just until the novelty of being the resurrected Christchurch dies down and the flat’s left in peace?”

“You’re swaying,” Mika points out from across the table, and Crowley flinches. “Maybe we should call Ligur.”

Crowley scowls, even though his sister doesn’t really deserve it. “Don’t bother the man, Mye. I already interrupted their honeymoon, pretty sure Hastur will strangle me already if I interrupt their new year too.”

“But—”

“I’ll be fine, Mika,” Crowley says, offering his sister a placating smile. “Honest. Besides, I’d already swore to Ezra we’d go to a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.”

“She has a point, though,” says Gabey, not even bothering to look up from his plate as he raises his fork to have a bite. “You look like you need some rest. Should we just wake you up at midnight?”

“No, I can stay up,” Crowley replies, waving Gabriel off. “I’ve already missed ten years’ worth of our annual Cluedo game, I’m not gonna miss another one.”

Crowley ends up falling asleep waiting for midnight, but it’s alright, they’re not really playing Cluedo this year, anyway. Too much excitement for him, or so Mum says, so they just settled with watching the movie. It’s fine, though, the movie’s just as fun, after all.

“Which ending are we in now?” he asks, sitting up as he tries to catch his breath against the odd heaviness that’s seemed to settle in his chest while he’s asleep.

“Ending B this year,” Lu replies without even looking away from the telly screen.

Crowley rolls his eyes, leaning his head against Ezra’s shoulder. “Boo,” he says. “I like C better.”

“You would,” Mika chimes in, turning to Crowley with a scrutinizing gaze. “A is still the best, though. And you look worse, by the way.”

“Wrong on both counts, Mye. I just fell asleep wrong, ‘s all,” replies Crowley, rubbing a hand over his nape in a feeble attempt to get rid of his stiff neck as he yawns.

“Right, I’m driving you to the hospital first thing tomorrow,” says Mika, still staring at Crowley in the same exact way Mum does that makes him feel like she’s looking straight into his soul.

“I don’t ne—”

“Thank you, Michael,” Ezra says, squeezing Crowley’s hand and fixing him a firm stare before he can even start arguing. “We appreciate it.”

“I can drive us, you know,” Crowley whispers, when everyone else’s attention is turned back to Wadsworth’s explanation.

“It’s not wrong to ask for help, dear,” says Ezra, placing a kiss on Crowley’s forehead. “Your hand’s all clammy, by the way.”

“Oh, sorry,” Crowley replies, looking sheepishly at Ezra as he wipes his hands against his jeans. “Still. Does it _have_ to be Mika?”

“Is it so wrong that we _want_ to help you?” asks Ezra, shifting so he could fully face Crowley.

“No. It’s not,” Crowley admits, chewing at his lip. “It’s just… What if she has work tomorrow? I don’t want to disturb anyone.”

“Anthony,” Ezra starts, and Crowley shivers a bit. He’s really in for it now, huh? “You said yourself it’s the holidays. You’re not disturbing anyone by asking for help, I promise.”

“You’re right,” says Crowley, blinking as he exhales slowly. “I’m sorry. What time is it now?”

“A little before eleven,” Ezra replies. “You woke up just in time.”

They decide to watch the fireworks show by the lawn, and everyone lets Crowley and Ezra have some privacy at least, allowing them to sit on a more secluded area of the grounds away from everyone else, but not before Lucifer pops open a bottle of champagne and hands a flute _only_ to Ezra, much to Crowley’s chagrin.

Crowley needs to lean heavily against Ezra as they walk to their spot, but Ezra doesn’t mind it, at least, likely thinking Crowley’s just slinking in closer to share some warmth. It’s been getting steadily harder for him to breathe this past half–hour, but if he could just keep it together until tomorrow, it’ll be fine. Probably.

He stretches out as they sit, laying down on the patch of well–maintained grass, and looks up at the night sky. The light pollution in the estate isn’t as bad as it is in London, so the stars can still be seen, shining brightly against their dark backdrop. It’s almost a pity they’ll be outshone by the fireworks show in a little while.

The breeze feels nice against his cheek, not as freezing as he’d expect it to be in winter, but just cool enough that he enjoys breathing in the fresh air, no matter that he couldn’t really get enough of it into his lungs.

“Ezra?” Crowley says, turning his head to his right where Ezra’s sitting.

Ezra doesn’t turn his head, still engrossed with the nighttime view, but he does let Crowley know he’d heard him, squeezing at the hand he hasn’t let go of yet. “Something wrong, dear?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Crowley replies, wincing at the uncomfortable feeling of his heart pounding against his ribs. It’s probably just the cold getting to him again. “Do you think we should go on holiday? This summer? South Downs, just the two of us? I think we still have a cottage there, and I still haven’t exactly taken you on a honeymoon trip yet.”

Ezra turns to him, smiling as he fiddles with the ends of Crowley’s hair. “If your cardiologist clears you for it, then why not?”

“We’ve had a good run this year, haven’t we?” Crowley asks, just as the first fireworks set off in the sky. “Maybe we should just spend the next back in our flat.”

“Is it really a good run if we had a rollercoaster of a ride this year?” Ezra jokes back with a grin, shouting over the noise, before his eyes turn back towards the pyrotechnic show.

“No, you’re right,” replies Crowley, though he doesn’t think Ezra’s heard him, considering the show’s reaching its climax. Must be midnight already. “Thank you, Ezra,” he whispers, too exhausted to continue fighting the heaviness behind his eyelids.

Strange. He’d thought he had more time.

Today was perfect. Laying down in the grass with Ezra next to him, under the soft twinkling of the stars that contrast the lights heralding in the new year, Crowley couldn’t ask for anything more. He smiles, glancing one last time at Ezra as the heaviness in his chest disappears, and drifts off.

**Author's Note:**

> Cait’s twitter is [here](https://twitter.com/temporalsilence), while Nadz’ tumblr is [here](https://ranichi17.tumblr.com). Gray doesn't want to link their tumblr because “it’s not fandom,” but they want to remind you that they crave kudos and validation.


End file.
